


Falling Again

by youraddictiveheart



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1945, 2019, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, Larry Stylinson Is Real, Larry easter eggs, Larry tattoos, M/M, Multi, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Other, POV Alternating, World War II, complementary tattoos, have y'all ever noticed how all of these are usually from Louis' POV, larry stylinson - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youraddictiveheart/pseuds/youraddictiveheart
Summary: Centuries pass and time always moves forward. But even as the world changes, soulmates manage to find each other no matter the time or circumstances.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Kudos: 14





	1. Part 1 - 2019 - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is my first Larry fic. To be honest, I haven’t been inspired to write in years, but this idea kept rolling around in my head. This is a work of complete fiction. There are references to real historical events, but the events themselves never happened, are not real, with no offense intended. It has no reflection on the real-life people mentioned in this fictional story. The story, and its characters, belong to me. Please do not repost anywhere, and do not print or distribute.
> 
> This idea was inspired by two main things. The first is the novel Midwinterblood by Marcus Sedgewick, which I highly recommend as a quick but wonderful read. The second is by a tweet that I saw on April 29, 2020, sent out by @rockerlwt. It included a picture of a note that may or may not be real. But it’s an idea I couldn’t let go of: “Dear Diary, Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t auditioned, Louis tells me not to worry, he’d find me anyways. Harry. X [sic]”.
> 
> If there’s one thing I believe with my whole heart, it’s that Louis and Harry always have and always will find each other in every life.
> 
> If you’re interested in finding me on Tumblr or Twitter, it’s @sickofxanaxcalm

Harry Styles could not for the life of him remember why Thursday became an acceptable day to go out when you were an adult. Did he have a good time last night? Mostly. Did he bring the dancer back home with him? Yep. Did he feel bad kicking her out at the ungodly hour he had to get up for work? Yeah, but it wasn’t eating him up too much. What _was_ eating him up was this fucking hangover. Fucking vodka.

“Hey Liam,” he mumbled. No response. “Liam.” A little louder.

“Stop yelling, Styles,” he heard the groan from the cube next to his. “What do you want?”

“ ‘m gonna get coffee. You want one?”

“Fuck, dude, yes. And see if they have Advil down there too.”

“Yeah,” Harry confirmed, leaning his chin into his palm. He let his eyes close, mind drifting a bit. As far as offices buildings went, Harry was grateful yet again that he worked in a fancy corporate office that included a lobby with a coffee stand and small convenience store. It had a sandwich shop too, but he had absolutely no interest in that at the moment.

“Styles?”

“Yeah?”

“You going like...now?”

“Oh,” Harry mumbled again, lifting his head, beginning the process of standing up. It was rough. “Yeah.”

He walked to the elevator, doing the absolute best he could to walk like a normal human being would, chanting _don’t throw up, don’t throw up, don’t throw up_ as his mantra the whole way there. He went to press the down button, but saw it was already lit up and took a step back to wait without considering _why_ it was already pressed. Or more precisely _who_ had done the pressing. Then he heard a chuckle somewhere in the vicinity to his...left? Right, it’s his right.

“Vodka’s not your best friend, is it?” a quiet voice rasped.

Here’s the thing. That voice belonged to Louis. As in, Louis Tomlinson. As in the generator to Harry’s fucking _life_. And it was only too perfect that the first time Louis Tomlinson talked to him, Harry was worried he might throw up on him.

The electricity sparking in his heart managed to make its way to Harry’s brain, which gave him just enough of a start to face Louis and actually say something back. It would’ve been hard under normal circumstances anyway, for one main fact: Louis Tomlinson was mesmerizing. Hair that was ruffled and swooped at the same time, somehow. Eyes that matched the time in early morning when it was definitely blue, but gently so. Ass that fit on his somewhat smaller (cough) frame but was still plump and delicious. Collarbone that always _just_ peeked out of the room left by the one undone button in his work shirt. 

So while Harry desperately wanted to say something dazzling and hilarious to inspire Louis to immediately make out with him, he had to settle for what his poor, damaged brain could actually manage at the time: “Mmhmm.”

Louis laughed, “That dancer you left with was gorgeous though.”

_Not as gorgeous as you. I only left with her because you were dancing with your girlfriend._

What he actually said out loud was, “Yeah.”

 _Mmhmm?! Yeah?!_ He groaned internally, wondering how that was literally the best he could manage with Louis fucking Tomlinson actually talking to him for the first time since Harry’d started working here two years ago.

While Louis had previously been unaware of Harry’s existence, it took Harry all of three minutes at the welcome party to find and subsequently love Louis. But while their jobs were similar, Louis and Harry didn’t work with the same people. Plus Louis was brilliant (and had two years on Harry in the job), so he was a few promotions higher than Harry.

Louis laughed again, “You on your way to get Advil or Tums or something?”

Harry chuckled, directing the latest electricity jolt toward wherever in his brain would make him sound functioning, “Coffee and Advil actually.”

“Oh, yeah, cool man, I’m headed down for coffee as well. I’ll keep you company as long as you don’t lean on me or puke on me.” Harry laughed, feeling better and better by the second, and Louis tilted his head, “Actually, you can lean on me, but if you try to put all your weight on me, you’ll crush me.”

Harry laughed again, appreciative of Louis’ self-awareness, as the elevator door dinged, signaling it was time to get on. They were on the elevator alone, which Harry thanked God above for. Louis Tomlinson focusing all his attention on Harry Styles made Harry’s blood immediately switch to magic. He’d never even talking to Louis in a group, and suddenly, he was the sole focus of Louis’ attention for 23 floors. No, it was not blood pumping around his body and through his heart to keep him alive. It was a current of lightning crackling through his heart and the resulting tremors and tingles that pushed through the rest of him. 

Harry was suddenly aware that while Louis had turned to the task of selecting the ground floor, his own eyes had turned into hearts. He quickly scolded his face and eyes, shoving the heart eyes back inside, and pulled off what he hoped was a normal, neutral expression before Louis turned back to him to finish the conversation. 

But when Louis did turn back to him, Louis’ eyes were bright, and he was smiling at Harry. He was _smiling_ at Harry.

The hangover was immediately gone.

“Up to anything fun this weekend?" Louis asked conversationally.

Harry considered his answer briefly to make sure it was clever, witty enough. "I was thinking of dying actually."

Louis laughed, not just a chuckle, but a real laugh, and Harry promised himself to do whatever he had to to hear that again. "That bad, huh Curly?”

Letting the nickname give him some more life, he smiled sheepishly, “That bad.”

Another chuckle. Then a pause, then a, “Well, a few of us are watching March Madness together at my place tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

 _Don't be too interested and weird._ Calm. Normal. It’s just basketball with a group of dudes. Totally normal. Let’s not talk about the fact that Harry was 99 percent sure Louis had just invited him over. Let’s not mention that at all.

"Oh yeah?"

Harry cursed the fast elevator, traitorously approaching their destination far too rapidly. Maybe he could casually push the emergency button. There was no rule saying this _couldn’t_ be like a cheesy TV show, right? But seeing as he was nowhere near the buttons, he resigned himself to the second ding of the elevator that indicated they’d reached their destination.

Louis continued their conversation easily, though, as they both walked toward the coffee stand on the far side of the lobby. 

"Yeah," Louis nodded. "Just casual. Bring beer, if you can stomach it. I've got all the food covered. Games go all day but I think people are coming around noon."

Harry nodded, thinking he might need a pace-maker as he digested the information that _tomorrow_ , he would be in Louis’ _house_ . With _Louis_. "Yeah, ok," and then added, "As long as I haven't actually died."

How the fuck he managed to sound nonchalant _and_ clever while his heart skipped every other beat, he had no idea. But that clever comment prompted another real, full, life-inspiring laugh that gave Harry’s heart the jolt it needed to resume normal operations. Harry might really die from the bolt of lightning that was Louis’ laugh. Which would be a shame because he’d _actually_ miss being at Louis’ house due to death. And make no mistake: death was the _only_ thing that could keep him away.

As they kept walking, Louis gently nudged him as they passed the small convenience store on their way to the coffee stand, "Hey, why don't don't you run to grab the Advil? Save some time from trying to hit both? Give me your drink order."

"Oh," Harry said, simultaneously cursing whoever had laid out the lobby in such a stupid way and wondering why on earth Louis wanted to 'save time' but couldn't have an identity crisis right then so he provided, "Just two medium black coffees, please."

Louis raised his eyebrows, "Black, huh? I'm impressed."

He nodded solemnly back, "Yeah, black like my soul."

Louis laughed a good, loud, belly laugh, which electrocuted Harry into movement, turning to the store, far too pleased with himself. It was a quick purchase, but Louis was already waiting for him outside the store with three cups of coffee in a holder.

"Thanks, man," Harry said, holding up his bag to indicate success. "What do I owe you?"

"Don't worry about it," Louis said and shook his head quickly, as they reversed their path and headed back to the elevator.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked, not wanting Louis to think he was the kind of douche that took a gesture like that for granted. But he received a curt nod in return and replied, "Ok, thanks."

They didn't say much on the ride back up, Louis already drinking his coffee -- which he’d confessed to Harry had two creams and a sugar in it because he was a wuss -- but Harry was humming with so much electricity that even a spark might blow them all up, so the silence was a gift. They got to their floor, Harry grabbing the two coffees out of the holder, and did the bro-nod as a goodbye, desperately wanting to linger and keep Louis there forever but not wanting to actually seem as desperate as he felt.

Louis returned the bro-nod and turned back toward his own half of the office. 

As Harry started the arduous process of filing away every second of the last twenty minutes into his memory bank, he quickly realized a problem and turned to catch up to Louis, "Wait, do I have your number? For you to text me the address?"

(Of course Harry didn’t have his number, but this seemed to be the easiest way to bring that fact up.)

Louis smiled and indicated to the coffees Harry was holding, “I had the barista write it on your cup.”

Harry inspected the cups, finding 10 digits written on the one in his right hand. He really did need to look into getting a pacemaker. “Oh, cool. Good thinking.”

Louis nodded and kicked his smile up an extra wattage, "See you tomorrow then."

Harry nodded again, holding his coffee up in cheers, and turned toward his desk and Liam's still-suffering body just visible from the cubicle next door. There was something that just registered to Harry as he handed the coffee and Advil over to Liam, sitting back in his chair, tipping his head back to enjoy the bitter sip of black coffee (he’d savor the moment of inputting Louis’ number later to have something to look forward to). While Harry was always _very_ aware of Louis’ presence, he thought Louis had never noticed him before twenty minutes ago. 

But Louis must have been paying attention to him last night, if he knew about the vodka and the dancer. So maybe Louis felt some of the same current as Harry did.


	2. Part 1 - 2019 - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Louis get closer.

“Curly!” Louis said jovially when he opened his front door. “Come on in, man, we’ve got everything set up in my living room. Oh yeah, yeah, plenty of room for your beer in the fridge.”

Harry was indeed carrying a six-pack of Corona, but very nearly dropped them when Louis opened the door and looked at him like _that_ . Like Harry was the exact only person he wanted to see that day. _Louis’ just very personable_ , he reasoned with his heart. _Don’t die on me just yet_ . But that fucking _smile_ . And those fucking blue _eyes_.

In the split second it took Harry and his heart to come to an agreement, he realized his feet were already moving to follow Louis into his (very nice) house. While Harry could see the living room straight ahead, Louis veered right quickly, on the other side of a dividing wall that split his living room and his kitchen. Harry didn’t know how Louis thought there was “plenty of space” in the fridge, but he found nooks and crannies to store his Corona in. He turned to the granite-top island that held a gigantic platter of Chick Fil A nuggets staring back at him, with big bowls of every sauce the restaurant offered. Heaven, pure and simple. Harry briefly wondered what it would be like to lick the original Chick Fil A sauce off Louis’ stomach. Great. Now Harry had to battle against his dick too.

Louis laughed at the eager expression in Harry’s eyes, mistaking the nuggets as Harry’s object of lust, rather than Louis himself, and encouraged Harry to help himself to everything. _Everything?_ his dick perked up. _No. Not him, specifically!_ And Harry won the battle over another body part for the time being.

He realized Louis was still showing him around everything he _was_ welcome to take and tuned in just in time to hear Louis add, “...the Trulys too, if you’d like. They’re my favorite, but I like to pretend they’re Rebecca’s to save my male ego.”

Harry froze briefly, having not even for a second considered that Rebecca would be here and suddenly worried that she was on the other side of the dividing wall. He listened for a female voice amongst the chatter but couldn’t detect one. In his own, private world, Harry liked to pretend that Rebecca didn’t exist. Not only did Harry already have to contend with the question of whether Louis was even attracted to men, but also the fact that regardless, Louis was taken. 

He’d found out as much within the first week of work -- and within two days of seeing Louis for the first time -- when Liam had mentioned something about part of how he got his job. Something like Liam’s sister and Rebecca were sorority sisters? Harry hadn’t really cared past Rebecca’s identifier as “Louis’ girlfriend”. As casually as he could, he asked Liam if he knew how long they’d been together. Liam shrugged and said a couple of years maybe, but he wasn’t sure, which made Harry slump in his seat a little bit. Liam (bless him) hadn’t noticed.

Harry had seen her around at work functions and after-parties (which was what Thursday night had been), and he hated to admit she _was_ pretty. Dark, raven hair and eyes that almost seemed gold in the sunlight, which Harry begrudgingly noticed at last year’s office 4th of July barbecue. 

She was shorter than Louis, which wasn’t as hard for a girl to be, Harry guessed, and worried himself whether Louis would want to be with someone taller than him. Louis seemed like kind of an alpha male, so would Harry’s _height_ be added to the list of disadvantages, right under _is a guy_? But Harry was definitely getting ahead of himself there.

Because the fact was that Louis seemed _genuinely_ happy with her. He saw them laughing, dancing, drinking, talking at any party they attended. And it had been another two years since he’d asked Liam that question. The outside world put this formula together: Pretty boy + pretty girl + have fun together + long-term relationship + mid-20s = marriage. So, really, Harry could be doing all this crushing for nothing. But he’d _told_ himself that, over and over and over again. He tried so hard to make his logical brain crush his heart’s brain, but he just _could not_ logic away his feelings. Feelings were the worst.

Louis hadn’t specified the guest list too much, but it sounded like a guys day, right? He didn’t have too much longer to wonder, though, because Louis was already leading him back to the other side of the dividing wall, into the living room, where seven or so people comfortably fit on various pieces of furniture facing the flatscreen. No Rebecca. Harry’s brain started fist-pumping.

Most of the guys Harry knew from work, so they all did the bro-nod, and Harry, relieved, turned quickly back into the kitchen to help himself to nuggets and beer. Louis had followed to get a fresh Truly from the fridge and quizzed Harry about how much he actually cared about the tournament. Harry threw in self-deprecating comments about his team never being good enough to make it, and Louis laughed (hum of electricity all over Harry’s body) in agreement.

Louis gave him the rundown of the fans present today, which included one representative from each of the major conferences, and most with teams playing in the games today. Apparently, in fact, one of those teams was playing _right now_ because Harry heard a lot of animated sports-watching-related sounds coming from one of the guys in the other room.

Just as the two of them were about to officially rejoin the group, Louis leaned in conspiratorially, and the current in Harry’s veins alerted him to the fact that Louis was close enough for him to smell, and damn. _Damn_.

“I have Kentucky and Duke losing this round because I hate them both, but if Niall and Zayn knew that, they’d rob me and then leave.”

Harry chuckled, but hadn’t actually registered what he’d said because he was too busy imprinting that low voice and fucking _smell_ into his psyche so he could torture himself with it later. The two made the final few steps into the official living room, Louis falling onto a beanbag on the ground, while Harry found some space on the sectional couch, sitting back to enjoy the food, company, and festivities. And only just a little disappointed he wasn’t sitting next to Louis. Only a little.

**

Harry didn’t have to be disappointed for long, though. The noon game had finished, but honestly, Harry could not have cared less about any of the basketball games going on. He couldn’t care less, either, about any of the other guys in the room, save for the one sitting directly to his left.

Louis.

Harry couldn’t remember who had gotten up from that spot to go to the bathroom earlier in that game that had just concluded, and he didn’t care, because almost the second that anonymous person had vacated the spot, Louis got up from the beanbag and plopped right down in it, turning to Harry just long enough to wink at him before focusing his eyes onto the screen.

He focused on breathing in carefully: not so deep as to alarm Louis with his intentions, but deep enough to breathe Louis with every inhale. How was it even _possible_ for someone to smell so good? It was this mix of tobacco and vanilla that Harry never knew he needed in his life before today, and now he was ruined for any other excuse for a scent. Roses? Fuck that. Old books? Pffft. New books? Hah!

Vanilla. Tobacco. Louis.

He was cognizant enough of the game to notice when one of the teams pulled far enough ahead for the game to become boring. As that started to happen, Louis simultaneously (subconsciously?) sank lower and lower into the couch, to the point that his and Harry’s arms were touching. Harry didn’t move, almost afraid to alert Louis to the contact in case the blue-eyed boy simply hadn’t noticed. What he learned in his state of complete immobility was that his arm was a conductor and Louis’ provided the current. His whole body thrummed like a circuit.

He had been solely focusing on making sure his body didn’t short-circuit when Louis leaned over and said quietly right into his ear, “So is Corona your favorite beer, then?”

Harry turned his head enough to notice Louis indicating to the empty Corona can on his coffee table, Harry having finished it well into the first game. (He would’ve gotten another, but...Louis.)

“Yeah,” Harry murmured back. “It’s the one my parents always kept around, so it was the first beer I tried for real. Like actually drank the whole thing. And I did that enough that I actually started liking it.”

Louis chuckled, nodding his head, and answered a question Harry hadn’t asked, “Yeah, I can see that. Beer is really gross at first. At least for most people. Obviously I still don’t like it much if I keep Truly stocked in my fridge.

“Yeah, that’s some white-girl-frat-boy shit,” Harry nudged him with a smile on his face and in return got a smile from Louis.

“I know, but I like what I like, so why judge it if it makes me happy?”

“Fair enough,” Harry said, understanding Louis’ words could actually apply to a lot more than just his beer preference, but he was pretty sure Louis hadn’t thought of it like that since he was probably normal and didn’t overanalyze everything before, during, and after saying it.

“For what it’s worth though, I hate avocados. They do piss me off,” Louis said, and Harry could still hear the smile through his words. “So while my casual drinking choice screams basic, I haven’t sunk to the level of brunch-basic.”

The conversation continued. They talked about nothing important, nothing of consequence, and really, nothing Harry could _actually_ analyze further. It was just an easy chat with a beautiful boy, and Harry could stay like this forever. He thanked God above that he had a bladder of steel because he wouldn’t move until the coroner took him away.

Harry’s eyes occasionally traveled to Louis’ mouth. Just to watch it form words and sounds as Louis told Harry about his idea of building a pool in the backyard. Harry made a concerted effort, though, not to stare too long, but he couldn’t help flickering back and forth from Louis’ eyes every now and then. Louis’ mouth was so intriguing. His lips looked so soft, like he was really conscientious about putting chapstick on, and they were a lovely color, reminiscent of pink orchids. 

The other boys, meanwhile, paid no attention to their mundane conversation, instead focusing on the basketball games. Someone stole the remote from Louis to be in charge of changing from one game to the next, depending on which games were close and/or almost over. Louis hadn’t even turned his head away to watch the remote go. Just continued talking in that quiet voice of his that made Harry’s heart hum. Louis and Harry’s arms stayed in exactly the same positions, and eventually their knees started to touch too. Harry was pretty sure hours were drifting away, judging by the cycle of games. He wondered if he could freeze his life right here. Always be next to Louis.

Louis was suddenly jolted back into host mode when his doorbell rang at 6:02 p.m. Harry remembered vaguely something about Louis mentioning pizza he’d pre-ordered to arrive at 6, so that was the only logical conclusion to this unpleasant interruption. As Louis hopped up to answer the door and sign the receipt, Harry felt the loss of his warmth immediately, and while he was grateful for having enjoyed _hours_ of that warmth, his whole body felt bereft. God, he was so _screwed_ . Fucking _feelings_.

Oddly, Harry’s left arm _did_ feel the warmth of flesh again, and as Harry turned to inspect to see if he’d gone crazy, he was greeted with Zayn’s giggling face. Zayn, who had been relegated to the corner spot on the sectional couch where he could spread neither his legs nor his arms and had to watch the game at a perpendicular angle, had shot up as soon as Louis answered the door to take Louis’ vacated spot. Harry wasn’t quite able to comprehend his immense disappointment, so great was it, but managed a smirk as Zayn said, “ ‘bout time I can stretch out more,” and made a show of propping his feet up into the coffee table where Harry’s sole empty Corona still sat. Their arms were still touching, and Harry felt intruded upon.

Louis closed the door, with a load of pizza boxes in his arms, clearly on his way into his kitchen to set them up for dinner. He didn’t seem to notice that Zayn had stolen his spot. _Or if he has_ , Harry thought, _he doesn’t care very much_. The thought further depressed Harry as he tried to shuffle away from Zayn a bit without being obvious. Maybe this was his chance to go to the bathroom finally.

Just as he’d decided his best course of action (bathroom, grab pizza, then re-enter the living room and subtly try to sit next to Louis again), Harry heard Louis shout from somewhere on his left: “Oi! That’s my spot!” 

He turned to find Louis with two pieces of pizza on a clean plate and a scowl on his face. Harry’s heart lifted at the thought of Louis fighting for his spot next to him. 

Zayn laughed, “You didn’t call fives! And I’ve been in that fucking awful seat all day. You take a turn.”

Harry wondered if maybe Zayn just knew Louis better than he did because Louis seemed _genuinely_ mad to him, but if Zayn was laughing it off, maybe Louis _was_ messing around? 

He got his answer when Louis barked, “I’m not fucking around, Zayn. Get out of my seat.”

Zayn turned his head in confusion, seeming to grasp that Louis was, in fact, _not_ having this and looked a little shocked. “Dude, give me a break! My neck feels like it’s permanently split from my spine.”

“Then take the beanbag or one of the armrest chairs!” Louis practically spat, very nearly stomping a foot. Harry couldn’t believe this. Louis was throwing an actual _tantrum_. The Louis he knew was only ever cheeky, laid-back, or having the time of his life. To be honest though, Harry thought it was adorable. It made his heart race. Why else would he insist on having his original seat back? Unless.

Unless.

Harry only dared to hope the real reason matched up to the reason his heart cheered for. _Louis wants to sit next to_ me.

Zayn still seemed to have no idea what was going on but must have decided it wasn’t worth the fight, finally just shrugging with a mumbled “whatever” as he moved to the armrest chair that was the further available away from Louis. Louis, on his part, glared for maybe a second longer, then seemed satisfied that his status as alpha was cemented, and plopped down in his hard-fought-for spot. Harry didn’t want to be dramatic, but as Louis settled back into the mold of his body still imprinted on the couch, arm lining back up exactly with Harry’s own, it felt like a puzzle piece had returned to its rightful spot. The only spot, in fact, where it would fit. Two pieces only fitting with each other.

Louis leaned in, reactivating the currents buzzing in Harry, murmuring, “I brought you a piece. Pepperoni good?”

**

The Chick Fil A platters came and went, as did the pizza and beer, which seemed to count the time better than the clocks did. It was when the fridge was officially out of beer and all the good games officially over that people started excusing themselves one by one (“I have to let my dog out.” “I’m going to Uber home.” “I’m going to Uber downtown.” “I’m tired, man.”).

All the while, Harry and Louis stayed in their puzzle-piece configuration, content to continue their ongoing, mundane conversations. Harry couldn’t remember half of it still, using his attention as invisible fingers: reaching toward the soft spot on Louis’ jaw right below his ear, trailing down Louis’ tummy where a peek of skin showed as his shirt lifted, raking through Louis’ progressively fluffier hair, prodding the dimple at the bottom of his spine, scratching any hint of pain coming from his insides, brushing his long and beautiful eyelashes. Harry could spend days admiring each piece of Louis.

It took Louis half an hour after the fact to realize that they _were_ actually alone. He seemed a little awkward about it at first, pulling up from the couch, rubbing his neck. Once again, Harry’s body immediately missed him, but his heart was the saddest of all, watching Louis’ face register shock and concern at his empty house.

“Oh fuck,” he said with a low laugh. “I’m a shit host, huh? Didn’t even realize everyone had left.”

Harry shrugged with a smile, trying to make Louis feel more comfortable. What was it about their current situation that made Louis’ brow pinch like that? Was it Harry? Should he leave? Despite Louis’ offering of pizza that probably wasn’t even available anyway, Harry thought maybe Louis was starting to process the fact that they’d spent the entire day, essentially cuddling, on the couch. Talking, laughing, conspiring. Flirting. Just a tiny bit, but a smirk here or a shove there definitely counted.

As he was trying to figure out his next move, Louis turned to face him again.

“Hey Harry?” he asked, just a hint of reservation attaching itself.

“Yeah?” he replied, squaring his shoulders to the other boy.

Louis’ eyes flicked away, then down as he murmured, “Are you dating anyone?”

That startled Harry, some kind of spark kindling somewhere near his left kidney, “What?”

“You just, I don’t know.” Louis shrugged like the question wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. “You never talk about anyone. It’s cool if you’re just enjoying your 20s, like with the dancer the other night. Just thought I’d ask. Pretend to be your family at Thanksgiving and all,” he added with an upward pull of his mouth, eyes flickering back up to Harry.

Harry let out a low laugh, but then considered the question for a minute, wondering just how honest he should be. He was pretty sure Louis had never actually _seen_ him with a guy, so maybe for all Louis knew, Harry was straight. It’s not like Harry went around with a big scarlet “B” sewed to every article of clothing. He _wanted_ Louis to know this about him, though. Wanted Louis to know there was _possibility_. Just in case that was what Louis was wondering. That maybe they hadn’t spent all afternoon cuddling on the couch for nothing. That it didn’t have to be explained away hastily as, “tHaT’s WhAt BeSt frIeNdS dO.” Harry had no clue if that’s even what Louis was looking for, but maybe Louis didn’t know himself what he was looking for, if he was even looking for something. They were alone, still warm from each other’s bodies. He could tell him. The truth. It was his best chance for reciprocation. He didn’t know when he’d get a better chance. And he knew this could ruin everything. But the stupid business of liking someone included jumping -- leaping -- off of a cliff and hoping there’s something good waiting for you. So. He leapt.

“Yeah, well, it’s like. I was dating someone, you know? In college? And, well” -- deep breath -- “he dumped me. And I just haven’t met anyone else I’ve really liked since.” _Other than you._

He could definitely feel Louis stiffen but couldn’t immediately discern why. Was this Louis shutting down? Was this what Louis had secretly wanted to hear? Louis wasn’t like moving _away_ from Harry, so that had to be a good sign, right? Harry let the silence unfold, not quite uncomfortable in it, but definitely not comfortable either. He was counting on Louis’ tendency toward being boisterous and opinionated to break the silence. He wasn’t disappointed.

“He, huh?” Louis asked quietly, blue eyes softly inquiring into Harry’s own green.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed, returning a gentle gaze of his own. It wasn’t romantic, but the air still felt charged somehow. Like the pleasant humming inside of Harry had become the air, and they were afraid if they spoke too loudly or breathed too deeply and pushed too hard that they’d light a fire. Burn everything down.

“Are you…?” Louis’ question hung in the air.

Harry shrugged, “Bi, I think.”

“You think?” Louis asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I mean, yeah,” Harry shifted, considering the question. “I guess it’s hard to really _know_ , isn’t it? If you really think about it. Like, is anyone really any _one thing_? But, I like guys and girls, so bi works for me.”

Louis nodded, looking down at his lap. Finally, after a few beats, Harry heard a low, “That’s cool.”

It was Harry’s turn to nod, really not sure what he should say next. It was such a delicate dance they held each other in. He was definitely not about to ask about Rebecca. He didn’t want to get up and leave, but of course he didn’t want to make Louis uncomfortable by staying if Louis only said it was cool out of obligation but that really this news wasn’t welcome. He also didn’t want to get up or walk out with the fear that Louis would never talk to him again. And what if Louis wanted him to stay? What if Rebecca was actually the furthest thing from his mind? What if Louis actually felt about Harry what Harry had long felt about him? Harry knew one wrong shift would suck all of the _air_ out of the air, and then they’d both be gasping helplessly.

“This is the most cliche fucking question in the world,” Louis started, and Harry’s face snapped toward him like a magnet does finding its mate, “but how did you know?”

It was definitely a question Harry had been asked before, but valid all the same for each person working on figuring him or herself out. Harry thought a lot of people's answers tended to be some variation of, “I just knew,” but he never found that answer to be very helpful. He took his time to answer, and let the words come slowly to make sure they were the right ones.

“Because I think boys and girls are equally beautiful. I never wanted to choose.”

Louis was looking down, but it seemed like wheels were turning in his head. Slowly turning. Like he was trying to grapple with an answer to a question he wasn’t even sure was the right one. In the end, it was almost as if Louis couldn’t help his mouth’s soft words, “You’re really beautiful.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Louis even meant for him to hear it, or if Louis was having some kind of conversation -- debate? -- in his own head. He didn’t move, still aware of the thin balance between them, knowing Louis needed thinking space, and hopefully some speaking space too.

But of course, whether he meant for him to hear it or not, Harry did hear it, and the tingling spread through his whole body in a mere matter of seconds. His cheeks flushed and everything was warm. Louis thought he was beautiful. _Louis_ thought he was beautiful. Louis thought _he_ was beautiful. Louis thought he was _beautiful_.

Harry knew he was objectively good-looking. His green eyes in and of themselves were pretty unique. He let his curly hair grow and used the good shampoo to keep it soft. He had legs for days and lips that seemed to draw people in.

But for Louis to think he’s _beautiful_?

While Harry contemplated the meaning of life at this revelation, Louis continued to look down at his own lap, frowning slightly. After what felt like maybe forever, he finally turned toward Harry, still kind of frowning, but he seemed to have come to some sort of decision. Harry wasn’t sure what it was, so he held perfectly still as Louis lifted his hand, gently wrapped, unwrapped, and rewrapped one of Harry’s curls around his index finger. Harry tried as hard as he could to look calm and comfortable with the gentle and somewhat intimate touch. He was going for inviting in a non-creepy way. His heart was obviously racing, but he breathed to steady it. He must’ve done a good enough job because Louis slid a little closer to him on the couch, still with that small frown on his face, as if he was wondering something, removing the finger from Harry’s curl and placing that same hand over his heart. He was leaning forward. Leaning in, Harry realized. Like for a _kiss_.

There was a lightning storm brewing in his chest. He couldn’t move, save for a quick look toward those lips he’d studied all day. Louis had frozen, too, when his face neared impossibly close to Harry’s. How could his face be this close without actually kissing?

Harry sucked in a breath, summoning his courage, leaning forward.

The cynical laugh cut right in between the infinitesimal space left between their lips, and Louis used the hand he’d placed on Harry’s chest to push him back, while Harry jerked around to face the source of that sudden, horrifying sound.

“Thank God I know Louis isn’t gay,” Rebecca said, gold eyes blazing, “because otherwise, I’d be _really_ jealous right now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone reading! I appreciate y'all giving a new author a chance. I'd love to hear what y'all think, too!


	3. Part 1 - 2019 - Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry tries to move on, and Louis gets jealous.

Harry had never before drunk so much coffee over a two-week period in his life, not even in the darkest depths of finals in college. But despite his thrice-daily trips to the coffee stand where he first made Louis laugh, he still hadn’t seen any trace of those blue eyes, swooped hair, or incredible cheekbones since the night he’d run-stumbled-run out of Louis’ house, pushing past Rebecca, unable to look her in the eye.

It seems like whenever a person who’s just maybe almost experienced a new side of his or her sexuality, there are two reactions. The first is to run away from feelings. The second is to try to run from said feelings but lose the battle with yourself. Louis, apparently, went with the former group. Harry had thought -- _hoped_ \-- Louis might text him Sunday or come to find him at his desk Monday. He was immediately disappointed, and then continuously disappointed, as he had tried to stay optimistic. Maybe Louis just needed some time to process. Goodness knows Harry was still processing some of what happened. But...two weeks? Harry shouldn’t still be trying to catch Louis near the coffee cart. He shouldn’t look for the boy around every corner, in every bathroom (not a creepy way though). But he couldn’t help it. Because his own processing only reinforced how much he liked Louis.

He liked how soft Louis’ hands were. He liked that Louis smelled like vanilla and almost like tobacco even though he’d never seen him smoke. He liked that Louis made a big deal about sitting next to him. He liked that Louis brought him back a piece of pizza. He liked that Louis made his skin tingle and his veins buzz.

 _I am not going to torture myself with this_ , he told himself every hour. And then somehow he’d find himself sinking down floor after floor for the third time that day _just in case_ Louis would be there this time.

What probably hurt Harry the most was that Louis hadn’t come looking for _him_. Like, he shouldn’t have expected that at all, but he just wanted so badly for Louis to care enough and think about him enough to come to him, text him, wait for _him_ at the coffee stand. But Louis, it seemed, had easily forgotten the two days that meant so much to Harry. Louis had a girlfriend after all. What had Harry really expected? For some miracle to occur that Louis was bisexual too, and even more specifically, wanted Harry instead of his long-time girlfriend?

Yes, actually. That was exactly what he’d expected. Well, _expected_ is a strong word. But he’d hoped. Really, really hoped. But his illusions had been shattered. He had to work toward acceptance and keep moving forward. That logical part of his brain that he was continuously fighting against was very smug, having even more proof that Harry had no business liking Louis. Harry’s heart wanted to flip off his logical brain, but the facts _were_ there, so all of Harry just sighed.

And so life went. Work was fine otherwise -- almost a nice distraction when he wasn’t trying to _casually_ see Louis. As the summer months approached, intern interviews started to fill his schedule. With a few years of experience under his belt, it was time for him to take an eager learner under his wing and pass on all his knowledge. He did not take the responsibility lightly.

Liam kind of did though. They were working together in the interviews. Not that they’d have any type of final say, but they were allowed some input on the candidates. They had looked through applications during March and gave their two cents on the big pile. But now it’s the small pile and interview time. Harry always came prepared, knowing a bit about each candidate with questions to discern the strong from the weak. Liam liked to ask each candidate who knew where the best sandwich shops were and what their walking speed was like. Harry did however appreciate Liam’s question about knowing how to fix a copier. That one was actually important.

It was an exhausting couple of weeks, constantly meeting new people, trying to gauge their personalities and work ethic, keeping names and faces straight. Harry found it exhilarating though, especially after he was called “sir” in one interview.

“Really?” Liam said as they walked back to their desks from that one. “She’s from the south. They call _everyone_ by those formal names. It’s polite.”

“Whatever,” Harry said, still grinning. “This goes under the category of ‘Being an Adult’ and I need as many of those cards as I can collect.”

Liam rolled his eyes. “If it makes you happy, then enjoy it.”

They both submitted their thoughts on the candidates on the office’s all-too-formal Google form, as they’d done every day for the past 10 work days.

“Only two people left though,” Liam said as he clicked submit. “We’ve got some good potential this summer. For work and for fun if you know what I mean.”

Harry looked up as Liam’s impish grin took over his face. He laughed and turned back to his own spreadsheet. “That’s your favorite part about doing these interviews then?”

“Hell yeah! Cool guys to bro with and some really cute girls too,” Liam answered waggling his eyebrows. “The one from yesterday? The brunette?”

Harry vaguely remembered her, “Yeah?”

“She definitely liked you. I give it one week into her internship before she hits on you.”

Harry laughed, “I’ll take that bet. Loser gets the winner Chick Fil A for lunch either the day it does happen or on the Monday of her second week.”

“Deal,” Liam said, reaching his hand out, which Harry shook confidently, already thinking about what he’d make Liam get him.

**

 _Fucking Liam_ , Harry thought as he waited in line to order Liam’s spicy chicken sandwich with fries and lemonade.

April and May had come and gone (with Harry finally going to get coffee only once a day and did so sulkily), and with June meant the influx of their extra summer help.

It had only taken four days. Bold, but not aggressive. Harry was impressed, actually. Not necessarily with the girl herself because brown eyes just aren’t as pretty as blue, are they? But the confidence, Harry had to admire.

She’d come up to his cube Thursday morning, holding a coffee. He noticed the movement in his peripheral, and looked up from the stack of Excel spreadsheets on his desk, only to find a medium black coffee right in front of his face. It took him a second to look past it at the hand holding it and the face that was indirectly attached to the hand.

“Oh,” he said smiling, “Well, hello.”

She didn’t say anything, just smiled and pushed the coffee toward him again.

He took it, keeping eye contact with her, feeling confident as the actual employee. “And to what do I owe this gift?”

“You interviewed me, right?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Harry nodded. “So since I’m here, I figured that’s thanks to you.”

It was kind of a stretch, but Harry didn’t much care. After months (months!) of not hearing from Louis, it felt good to be pursued. To have someone pay attention to him. To have someone go out of their way to get his attention. She was demanding it, really. And it was easy for Harry to give it to her, if for no other reason than to stroke his own ego.

She held up her own coffee in some sort of cheers fashion. Harry laughed and lifted his in kind, while Liam looked up from his own cube with a clear look on his face that said, _And what am I?Chopped liver?_

Harry took a sip while she introduced herself -- Lillian, by the way -- grateful for the caffeine and appreciative that she’d left it black. 

_She’s good_ , Harry thought as she smoothly transitioned to where she was staying for the summer. A sub-let, it seemed, in a really nice apartment building within walking distance to their office.

“It has this insane pool on the roof! I went as soon as I finished moving in. It’s kind of like a frat party, but less lame,” she was telling Harry.

He gave an appreciative chuckle, “I think most of the fancy apartments around here have that kind of vibe. Young professionals who make too much money and don’t want to grow up yet.”

She smiled, “Oh yeah? You live in one yourself then?”

“Oh, of course.”

“Well I bet its pool still isn’t as awesome. You should come to my building Saturday. Enjoy all the views it has to offer,” she said coyly.

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. She was cute, and she was flirty. She went for what she wanted. He definitely admired that (insert passive aggressive thought toward Louis here). He accepted and got her phone number so she could text him the details. 

That was how he found himself in the worst lunch line in the history of lunch lines. He was definitely getting something for himself, he decided.

And it was how, two days, later, he was four IPAs deep, slightly sunburned, lounging on a very comfortable chair, facing Lillian next to a rooftop pool.

 _This girl_ is _really pretty_ , Harry thought to himself as he polished off beer number five. Her hands were warm on his arm. _Brown eyes aren’t too bad_ , he reasoned with himself. And she was just so _warm_ , with this amazing glitter sunscreen on that made her sparkle like she was a vampire or something. Her mouth was moving, but Harry didn’t pay attention to a word she said. He hadn’t all afternoon actually. He liked watching her mouth move, slowly and intentionally, forming each word precisely. Eventually, though, Lillian said something that clearly required an answer, based on how she was looking at him. She leaned forward a little, and Harry could see the tan line on her hip as her bikini bottom slid a little bit. He had no idea what she’d said, but the sight of that line, the glittery tan contrasting with the popcorn white made him smile directly into those brown eyes, feeling his own mouth moving. Apparently she’d asked a yes or no question, and Harry had just answered yes. (He was definitely losing his touch if it only took five IPAs to make him this aloof. Or maybe he was just leaning into the alcohol more to help keep another certain pair of blue eyes and orchid lips out of his mind.) She smiled back at him (carnation lips; fine but not extraordinary), ran her hand quickly through her brown hair that matched her eyes, and then held it out for him to take. He did just that, aware that now his hand would be covered in glitter, but still grinning and still not hearing what she was saying. She was grabbing both of their towels and her bag, still holding his hand. He vaguely thought he should find somewhere to recycle the beer, but she was already tugging him along, and he looked back at the sad unrecycled cans but had no willpower to do the right thing.

They were almost to the door when Harry felt a hand that was even _warmer_ on his back. He resisted Lillian’s tug enough to turn around in search of _that_ warm hand and came face to face with what he was pretty sure was a pissed-off Louis. It didn’t make sense to him and that IPA man, so he took an extra second to process Louis’ features. Narrowed eyes, knitted brows, frown line. So Harry added all facts together, and they did seem to equal angry. It was a shame that the first time he’d seen him in almost three months that he looked so _angry_. What was he so mad about?

“Louis!” Harry tried, injecting happiness into his proclamation. He was, truthfully, elated to see him. Let Louis be a grumpy Gus. Harry had missed him so, so much. He’d let Louis be mad at him forever if it meant he got to _see_ Louis. Be _near_ Louis. Have Louis’ warm hand on his back.

Harry’s enthusiasm, indeed, did nothing to soften that frown. He was tempted to smooth Louis’ frown lines and kiss him. But that would be a very bad idea. Drunk, drunk, drunk.

“What the hell are you doing, Curly?”

It was then apparently Harry’s turn to frown and knit his own brows. Because wait. Louis was obviously mad. But why was he mad at _Harry_? Had he wanted Harry to text all those months ago? Nothing else in the moment made sense.

“I’m…” he started, trying not to slur his words, “I’m not doing anything. Is there something I should be doing?” 

Louis’ nostrils flared and he pursed his lips into a flat line. 

“What are you doing with _her_?”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He turned to look at Lillian, who was watching this exchange with a sexually frustrated look in her eye. She was gently tugging at Harry’s hand, trying to get him to blow off Louis so she could get what she wanted. What they both wanted, really. This was what Harry had definitely come here for too. So how was it even possible that Louis was here right now, in Harry’s face, mad at him for being hand-in-hand with someone else when Louis hadn’t cared about Harry’s general existence for _months_?

His hand was still on Harry’s back, and so half of Harry’s brain was distracted with that. That hum of electricity that Louis always sent through Harry’s body took him by surprise, so long had it been since he’d felt it. Thank goodness he hadn’t gotten in the water. He’d have been electrocuted for sure.

But he was also getting mad.

“What do you care what I’m doing with her? I didn’t know you remembered I existed.”

Harry felt Lillian drop his hand, so he turned to look at her and was met with a puzzled expression. _No_ , Harry thought, _I want to get laid. I want to forget about him_. It was supposed to be his distraction from Louis, and now it was Louis himself ruining this for him.

“Is there a problem here?” Lillian asked slowly, looking back and forth between the two of them. “Are you two…?”

Boyfriends? Dating? Sleeping together? Involved in any way? You’d think so because Louis was acting like a jealous, jilted lover, when really, it was _Harry_ that fit into that role. Jealous was the only way to describe Louis’ behavior. And Harry wanted him to be jealous. Because that meant there were feelings. 

“No,” Harry said shortly, pointedly, looking back at Louis, “we’re not.”

Louis sneered -- actually sneered like he was Draco Malfoy or something -- and said, “Not that it’s any of _your_ business anyway.”

Lillian’s eyebrows raised in surprise as she turned to Harry, like she expected him to explain, and in a nice way. Maybe Harry should’ve said something to her. But he was too busy trying to work out why else Louis might be jealous if it wasn’t because he liked him, all the while never losing focus of Louis’ _hand_ on his _back_ , and he didn’t even know what he _should_ say. Brown eyes are actually not very pretty, Harry decided. That was all he could come up with. And he definitely wasn’t going to say that.

She gave him about 20 seconds before rolling her eyes with a “whatever” and turning on her heel, marching through a set of doors. Harry watched her go for a second, really frustrated at his loss, especially considering he hadn’t gained anything other than Louis’ attention. Which, ok, was actually kind of great, but only after Louis explained what the fuck was going on.

“ _What the fuck_?” Harry finally asked, turning fully to face him.

Louis said nothing as he moved his hand from Harry’s back to taking the hand Lillian had abandoned and dragged Harry through a different door, just perpendicular to the door that was to be his original route.

Louis continued to say nothing as he dragged Harry up a flight of stairs -- which didn’t make sense to Harry because he’d thought the pool was on the roof -- and through a door at the top of the staircase. There were worse things than being dragged around by Louis, but Harry really did want answers. And water. He really wanted water. Those five IPAs were no longer his friend.

Louis pulled them both through the door and stopped only when they reached a bird cage on the far left side. What the hell was a bird cage doing on the roof of an apartment? And there were actual live birds in there, chirping, flitting around, eating seeds, bathing. They were surrounded on all sides by brick walls, with one space of the west side not bricked as high so as to appreciate a nice sunset.

And a nice sunset it was. While it was pretty and all, though, Harry was sobering enough to feel the full force of how pretty Louis was. Even though Harry was pretty pissed at the moment, this angst-filled Louis was beautiful. Harry didn’t really know what to say, and Louis seemed like he was having some sort of man-versus-himself battle, so he kept switching between watching the brown and red songbirds and hesitantly eyeing Louis.

“You shouldn’t hook up with an intern. It looks bad,” Louis finally said.

“ _What_?” Harry asked incredulously. “You can’t be serious. You were an asshole to Lillian and nearly ripped my arm off dragging me up here just to tell me it would look bad for me to sleep with an intern? When literally _everyone_ hooks up with interns. Isn’t that how you met Rebecca?”

Louis wouldn’t look him in the eye, apparently finding his bare toes fascinating, and definitely didn’t answer that question even though Harry didn’t need him to. He waited and waited for Louis to say something, anything to explain what the hell was going on. To no avail.

“Are you fucking serious?” Harry finally said. “I haven’t seen you since your _couch_ and now you think you have any right to dictate who I sleep with? Jesus, I’ve been _waiting_ for you to say something. Say _anything_! Not even about that night but just act like you know me and like we’re friends. But we aren’t even, are we?”

Louis mumbled something that Harry faintly made out as, “Rebecca.”

“What about her?” Harry asked, exasperated.

“She was really pissed off,” Louis said, still mumbling.

“About what?”

Louis looked up long enough to roll his eyes, “Don’t be obtuse. She has _eyes_ you know.”

“Ok,” Harry said slowly, “and what did she see with those eyes?”

He wanted Louis to say _something_. Something about what was in the air when they were sitting on the couch together, a breath away from kissing. An homage, a tribute, an honorary mention, an acknowledgement. Just _something_. Just something to admit it was a something.

Louis’ face turned a deep shade of red that he couldn’t hide, even as he resumed studying his toes. Harry sighed. This poor boy seemingly going through an identity crisis. Harry knew at least a little bit of what Louis might be trying to process. He thought so, but Louis wouldn’t _talk_. He avoided Harry and got jealous enough to drag him away from Lillian, but seemed physically incapable of articulating his internal war.

Harry tentatively reached out to touch his shoulder, “Lou?”

He didn’t look up, but he didn’t move away either. So Harry continued.

“If you’d just tell me what’s bothering you, we can figure it out.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” Louis muttered.

It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. He kept his hand where it was and tried again, “My ass, nothing’s bothering you.

That seemed to trigger something.

“I don’t like you, ok?!” Louis finally burst out, shoving Harry’s hand off his shoulder and taking those few steps back. Always taking steps back. Still, after a beat, he added in a normal volume. “I can’t like you.”

Louis refused to look Harry in the eye, but Harry pressed anyway, stepping closer to that vanilla and tobacco scent he had missed so much. “Don’t and can’t aren’t the same. They’re actually really fucking different. So which is it? You don’t like me? You genuinely don’t have feelings for me? Or you think you can’t like me because I’m also a dude?”

“I’m just not like you, okay?!” 

Yelling again, and with the gold-medal-winning non-sequitur answer to Harry’s actual question. He had to think a second before responding, trying to understand the jump Louis must have made in his own mind.

“Not like me, like not bisexual? Not like me, like you don’t know how not to be a dick? Or maybe not like me, like you don’t know how to actually face who you are and go for what you might want?”

Harry waited for an answer. He really did. He thought he might finally get something out of Louis with that. All Louis did was look at him, though. Brows still impossibly knitted, frown still etched into his face.

Harry slammed his hand into the brick in frustration. Instead of turning back to Louis, he stomped toward the bird cage and opened it, all the birds whooshing out, leaving only feathers in their wake as they soared high toward freedom.

“Why the fuck did you do that!” Louis screamed. Harry turned. “Everyone in my building comes up here to feed those birds. They were _fine_.”

Harry’s frustration poured out as well, “They were in a goddamn _cage_ , Louis. Sure, maybe life was _fine_ , as you put it, being fed and petted but never making any decisions for their own lives. Sound familiar to you? Aren’t you _fine_ , Louis? You’ve got yourself locked in this cage where Rebecca feeds you and pets you, and you’ve been telling yourself that you’re just fine. But you’re so caught up in caging yourself in labels, and it makes no goddamn sense to me! You don’t think your gay? Fine. But you like me, and we both know it. Label or not, that’s a fact. But you’re shoving your head up your ass because you’re too afraid to leave the cage you’re in. And it’s a cage you’re keeping _yourself_ in.”

Louis was still glaring at Harry, so he tried one more time, but gentler: “Who cares if you’re gay or bi or whatever? You like me. I _know_ you do because otherwise you wouldn’t have been jealous. I’m crazy about you. I know that you're scared because I'm so open, but you’re going to let that drive you away from something that could be great? You’re not a coward Louis.”

Louis unfolded his arms from his chest, but still said nothing, mostly glaring still, making Harry huff, “Fine. Maybe you are. Whatever. I’m leaving.”

And he did just that, letting the door slam behind him, Louis still glaring at the empty cage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for reading this! I'd love to hear any comments. 
> 
> I've finished all of Part 1 but have to edit the rest of it, and then I'll post it. It's one more chapter but kind of a doozy :)
> 
> Love y'all!


	4. Part 1 - 2019 - Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of stuff: Harry at home, the boys all hanging (minus Louis for the time being), jealousy! I love jealousy.

_I guess it’s not_ too _bad being home for 4th of July_ , Harry thought to himself as he enjoyed the pulled pork from the Boston butt his dad had spent all afternoon smoking.

His mom sat across from him, eating her barbecue sandwich, having added buns and sauce to her pork, while his sister Gemma sat next to him, not even bothering with a fork, digging in with her fingers. His dad had already finished his own helping and had moved on to the grilled corn portion of the meal. There were four Coronas on the table, each with varying degrees of fullness.

No one felt the need to talk, other than a “Thanks Dad,” and “Good job, Des,” as they indulged in the quintessential American foods on the most American holiday. It was companionable silence, and Harry had almost forgotten how easy it was to be around his family. He didn’t get to come home as much as he liked, with his job as demanding as it was, and he was actually really glad he’d decided to drive home instead of joining Liam at his lake house.

Plain and simple, Harry was frustrated. Louis’ actions had a very reasonable explanation, but it wasn’t any kind of explanation Louis was capable of grasping. Or admitting. Or whatever. There were too many signs, too many otherwise inexplicable words and gestures for Harry to think what Louis actually _said_ was what he believed to be true.

But while this was obvious to Harry, Louis had his head shoved so far up his own ass (there was a far more useful head to be in a different ass, Harry thought) that he may never accept his own reality. But, Harry wondered, did denying reality just create a new reality in which Louis could live forever? Harry didn’t know, and it kind of broke his heart, but he just. Wasn’t. Going. To. Wait.

It would hurt too much. It hurt enough already.

He’d liked Louis for years. And he’d gotten to see Louis up close, only to realize Louis was almost exactly who he’d always thought he was: compassionate, funny, intelligent, thoughtful. But he was wrong in hoping Louis would like him enough to try with him. Maybe Louis did like him. But maybe Louis would never let himself out of his own cage to try. It would do nothing but hurt Harry to wait, especially because maybe he’d be waiting forever. Louis still hadn’t even texted Harry. The only exchange in their message was Louis sending his address and Harry replying with a thumbs-up. It depressed Harry even to think about it.

He’d thought about texting Louis instead. He really considered it. Something felt wrong about that, though. Like maybe pushing Louis wasn’t the way to get him to come around, like how it hadn’t worked on the rooftop.

Also, he was terrified that Louis would never text him back.

Harry sighed to himself. It was probably time to try and find someone else.

“Earth to Harry?” Gemma said, poking him in the ribs.

“Gah! What!” Harry replied, the poking definitely pulling himself out of his thoughts.

“Do you want another beer?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

Harry rolled his right back, “Of _course_ I want another beer. What a silly question.”

After Gemma flipped him off as she walked back inside their house to grab a new round, Harry’s attention switched to his mom, as she was explaining their city’s fireworks show.

“...and we should be able to see it from our front yard, which is as easy as it could be! We’ll grab those fold-out chairs, and you can play the local station on your phone, right Harry?”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Great because they match their songs with the show! Isn’t that cool?”

Harry smiled at his mom’s enthusiasm, “It is really cool, Mom. It’ll be a really fun show to watch.”

Gemma came back with the beers, and they all cracked open their new cans, shooting the shit with each other while waiting for it to get fully dark. They cleaned up from dinner, with a lot of leftovers readily available for Harry to take back with him, and started gathering the chairs to be used for watching the show. His family was nothing if not efficient, so they were all set up in chairs, beer in hand, waiting for the show to start in no time. Gemma had offered to use her iHeartRadio app to broadcast the local station’s accompaniment. It seemed they were efficient to the point that they were early, so Harry started scrolling through his Facebook, realizing he hadn’t done that in probably a week. He liked to clear out the birthday notifications, occasionally sending belated wishes to friends. 

After taking care of that, the show still hadn’t started, so he scrolled through the endless baby and engagement photos on his feed, intermingled every so often with one of his mom’s friends commenting on a recent picture.

But then.

But.

Then.

 _Louis Tomlinson is single_ , the post on his feed boldly declared.

 _Louis Tomlinson is single?_ Harry thought. Louis? Is? Single?

His brain couldn’t compute fast enough. He clicked onto Louis’ profile to see if there was any type of indication or answer or clue or _anything_ that could help him understand this monumental shift in the universe. 

The only other difference besides the relationship status was the profile picture. Louis, smiling, alone.

It was perfect timing that actual fireworks started going off in the sky the minute they started going off in his brain too.

**

Well. Ok. So.

Was this Louis’ version of moving? Of doing something? Of opening that damn cage?

Harry reasoned with himself that it might not have anything to do with him at all. In fact, it _most likely_ did not have anything to do with him at all. It had been almost a month since seeing Louis on the rooftop when Louis screamed in his face that he didn’t like him.

(And, ok, Harry was pretty sure that wasn’t true, but it hurt him more than he liked to think about.)

He stayed up all night, wondering, wondering, what could this possibly mean. Because he wanted, so desperately wanted, this to be about him.

Had the breakup just happened, like Facebook indicated? Or had it happened a while ago, but Louis hadn’t gotten on social media? Did they have a fight? Did he even break up with her, or did she break up with him? Louis had said she was really pissed when she found them together on the couch. But that was _months_ ago, so surely it had nothing to do with that. Really, what if Louis was currently miserable, heart-broken? 

But these weren’t any questions he could answer for himself. If he really wanted to know the answers, he’d have to talk to Louis. It came down to the same thing he’d been thinking only hours ago. Would Louis actually talk to _him_?

**

July 4th had fallen on a Thursday, so Harry’d taken Friday off so he could relax at home a bit on Friday before driving back. It was nice to wake up in his childhood bed. Like with the thunderstorm in his head, he could almost pretend it was 10 years ago and that his mom was about to drag him out of bed to make sure he didn’t miss breakfast. He could even hear Gemma’s music through their adjoining walls, except this time the music was coming from an Amazon dot instead of her stereo.

When he finally rolled over to find his phone, the first thing he did was check Facebook again to make sure the relationship status change hadn’t been a dream. It hadn’t. There it was. _Louis Tomlinson is single_. 

He locked his phone and stared out the window. His mom had added a few bird feeders outside his window, and he liked watching the cardinals and blue jays get some breakfast before their busy days. It helped him collect his thoughts, going through all the possibilities he’d thought of last night, about what it could possibly mean, Louis being single. How it had happened, and if that meant maybe he did have a chance after all.

He wasn’t one to be masochistic. He didn’t like mooning over people who were never going to be interested in him. It made him feel like an idiot. His heart had been hurt enough by the conversation on the rooftop that it let his logical brain take control. _Louis is stuck. Louis is trapped. Louis has to get_ himself _out of the cage_. He let those ideas roll around and around his head. He let his heart pump them all through his body. The tingle and the buzz his heart normally liked to push through him was suddenly replaced by the shocks and zaps of logic. 

But this one update, this one fucking declaration from Facebook, has his heart raising its head, sniffing for what was in the air now. _Possibility_. Maybe. Not really, but his heart was a dope, and he had to live with that.

It was the smell of bacon that finally got him out of bed. It practically carried him into the kitchen, where the rest of his family was already seated and ready to serve themselves.

“Ugh,” Gemma rolled her eyes. “Always on time for the eating part, right little bro?”

She smirked to let him know she wasn’t actually mad. They spoke in sarcasm to each other as often as not, and it was one of his favorite parts of their relationship.

“Well, yes, big sister,” Harry drawled. “I like to let you peasants do all the work.”

“Hey!” his mom said, tapping him on the head with the newspaper in her hand. “For that, you get to do clean-up, _your majesty_.”

He grinned and rolled his eyes at Gemma, who was sticking her tongue out.

Everything was delicious. The bacon, French toast, scrambled eggs, watermelon, peaches. They were having a great time chatting casually, languidly, catching up on recent life events. Gemma was telling them about someone she briefly dated, and then all of the sudden, she looked at Harry.

“How about you, baby brother? Anyone special?” she asked innocently.

Louis’ face flashed in his mind for a second. The fluffy hair, the blue eyes, the soft, sweet hands. Vanilla and tobacco filled his nostrils. He was somehow sitting at his family table and also on Louis’ couch, with Louis’ face inches from him, about to kiss him. And just as suddenly as the sensation hit him, it was gone. And he felt as bereft as the first time it’d happened.

His reaction came out in the form of anger as he raised his voice to respond, “Why are you being so nosy?” that included a touch of hysteria in it.

Gemma’s shocked face stared at him, “Whoa, Harry. Calm down. I was just asking.”

“Well,” Harry stuttered for a second, “just don’t!”

He got up from the table and stomped back into his room, nearly slamming the door. Yep, exactly like it was 10 years ago. He paced back and forth in front of his mirror for about five minutes. 

What was Louis doing to him? He’d done so well, so _fucking_ well with all of this, and it was like all of the sudden, Louis was single and Harry thought he had a chance again. And when did he ever really have a chance in the first place? Yeah, Louis almost kissed him, but other than that, it was like everything else was just happening inside of Harry. And what was happening inside of Louis? It was driving him crazy.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He sucked in a breath, pulled out his phone, and typed, “I saw your Facebook status.” Click, send. 

It was simple: Louis would either reply, or he wouldn’t. Harry would just have to wait and see.

And then, he marched back out of his room to do the damn dishes.

**

“I’m a dick,” he said to his sister, and he was hugging her goodbye.

“Yeah, you are,” she huffed back into his neck.

He held her at arm’s length, hands on her shoulders, “No, seriously. I’m really sorry. You didn’t deserve my anger. I just…”

She smiled, holding his hands with her own, “Yeah. I figured that out on my own. No one is that triggered when nothing is going on. Let me know when you figure it out.”

She winked, and he smiled sheepishly back.

He got in the car with a final farewell to his family, and drove back toward his adult life. And he did _not_ check his phone on the road. Nope. It’s illegal. He would never do that.

Fine. Once.

Twice, but that really was all. And then he was back in his apartment and could check it all he wanted, so there.

It pinged with a drunk text from Liam. It pinged with a message from his mom asking him to let them know when he’d gotten back. It pinged with a few ESPN and Instagram notifications. And Harry held his breath every time. 

Until finally.

Ping. **Louis Tomlinson**.

Harry wasted no time opening it, heart pounding. Only to find, ‘ _We broke up.’_

Harry sighed. “Obviously, Louis,” Harry muttered to himself. Then he went to type in his phone the most important question he had to ask. 

_‘Why?’_

He wasn’t sure if it was going to take Louis another few hours before responding, but he watched his screen, hopefully to see the blue moving dots. Only a few moments later, he wasn’t disappointed.

_‘Weren’t getting along.’_

_‘Oh. Are you sad about it?’_

If Louis was sad, Harry would be sad that Louis was sad. But if Louis wasn’t sad about it...

_‘No.’_

Harry rolled his eyes. _Thanks for being the most articulate person on the planet, Louis_ , Harry thought to himself. It was his own fault, he guessed, for asking a one-word-answer type question. He decided, however, not to push too much right now. His main questions were kind of answered. If Louis wasn’t sad about it, Harry wasn’t going to pretend to be either. And Louis saying they weren’t getting along made the breakup sound mutual, at the very least, which was relatively comforting. Harry didn’t know how to ask _Was it because of me?_ without sounding like a douchebag (because there _was_ no way to ask that without sounding like a douchebag), so he decided not to push his luck anymore, simply sending back, _‘Ok, that’s good.’_

He put his phone down next to him, figuring that would be the end of the conversation. That Louis still wasn’t ready for...whatever. And he was right. His phone was silent the rest of the night.

**

Work after the 4th of July holiday was kind of depressing because everyone knew the next holiday they had to look forward to was Labor Day. While it wasn’t as bad as the stretch from MLK Jr. Day to Memorial Day was, it still felt like forever in the summer.

Liam looked like he was _still_ hungover from the holiday, even though it had been four days since.

“Hey Harry,” he grunted as a greeting when Harry strode up to his cube. Liam always beat him to work, no matter how shitty he felt.

“That bad, still?” Harry asked, smiling a little. Not at Liam’s pain. Never.

“No joke, when Zayn and Niall decide they want to party, it’s a fucking _party_ ,” Liam said lifting a bottle of Pedialyte to his mouth.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were friends with them. I met them at Louis’ a few months ago.”

“Yeah, they mentioned that. They were bummed you didn’t come along. They asked me the weirdest question though.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry looked over his own cube wall into Liam’s, lifting his own coffee to his mouth.

“Yeah,” Liam started, not quite looking at Harry. “They asked me if you and Louis Tomlinson were together yet.”

Harry froze, halfway in the process of replacing his coffee cup on his desk. He managed out a weak, “Oh?”

Liam’s eyebrows went up a little, “Yeah. Which I laughed at because I thought they were joking. But then they were smiling at me like they knew something I didn’t. Which really isn’t fair, since, you know, we’re work husbands and all.”

Harry knew the second he looked into Liam’s eyes that they’d be puppy-dog round. Even knowing what he was about to face, he was still a little struck in the heart by them. Liam was right; they were definitely work husbands. But what was Harry supposed to have told him? Told him what really? And what, really, did Zayn and Niall know? Nothing. They saw Harry and Louis cuddling, but they’d left before it got serious. Well, kind of serious, maybe.

He finally looked at Liam and shrugged, “Yeah, that _is_ a weird question.”

Liam looked disappointed, “Oh come on Harry. You know something about why they asked that. What’s going on? I didn’t even know you knew Louis.”

“I don’t,” Harry shrugged, looking at his “to-do” pile on his desk.

“That’s not really what Zayn and Niall said,” Liam pushed, now looking over into Harry’s cube, since Harry had ducked his head. “Come on, Harry. It’s _me_. Talk to me.”

Harry still wouldn’t look up, but forced his voice to be as emotionless as possible, “I really don’t know what they’re talking about, Liam. Louis and I hung out one Saturday at his house way back in March. And we were having a nice time sitting next to each other on the couch. But nothing happened, and I never heard from him again.” He left out the _except for in June and this weekend_ part in his head because unrequited love experiences shouldn’t count.

“Well, the way they put it, you and Louis weren’t just sitting next to each other…” Liam said, leadingly.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Liam,” Harry finally snapped, looking at him finally, “Why don’t you tell me what else they said and what else you think you know so we can stop beating around the bush?”

Liam chuckled, appreciating the fire in Harry, “Fine. They said the two of you looked about ready to make out with each other, your faces were so close together. Zayn said Louis nearly broke his neck when he stole Louis’ seat from the couch. Niall said he’d never seen Louis like that even with Rebecca. And while I can’t fucking believe I didn’t hear this myself, I also kind of think there’s a reason you didn’t tell me. So fess up. What the fuck happened?”

Harry sighed, “Let’s go get coffee, ok?”

Liam nodded. Harry threw away the luke-warm cup of coffee on his desk and they headed toward the elevator. The same elevator Harry had been waiting at for months. The same elevator where it had all started. He told Liam about that first time they spoke and how Louis had invited him over. He explained how Louis had eyes the color of the early morning sky and legs that couldn’t quite reach the coffee table from his couch. He told Liam about he was a conductor to Louis’ current, which made him feel like Thor wielding Stormbreaker. He told Liam about the almost-kiss and how Rebecca had interrupted, following by a three-month hiatus that only led to Louis yelling at him on the roof. He did finally tell him about the very brief text conversation, and how it too had felt like a dead-end.

He told Liam how he liked Louis, a lot. How he could almost see himself loving Louis, if Louis would ever give him a chance. He told Liam how he couldn’t make himself crazy over a boy who was straight, not again. He’d done it before, and it tore him apart. He told Liam that every time he’d managed to put it behind him, the story changed, pulling him back in, giving him hope, and it was driving him crazy. He told Liam that he wanted Louis, plain and simple. But that he didn’t know what else to do.

He managed to get through the whole thing, which took the entire trip down and back up, so by the end, they were settled back at their own desks, drinking their fresh cups. In the whole process, he managed not to cry. Somehow. He really wanted to cry. For being helpless. For _feeling_ helpless.

“Aw, Harry,” Liam breathed, sympathy in his eyes as Harry concluded, which he indicated by taking a long swig from his coffee, “I had no idea you felt this way.”

Harry nodded, unsure of what else to do.

“Let’s figure something out though, yeah? I mean, if Louis’ friends thought there was something there, too, it’s worth at least asking them, don’t you think?”

Harry considered for a second, then nodded, “Yeah. I guess. Nothing embarrassing though, like junior high. Me asking you to tell his friends to tell him I like him.”

Liam had a glint in his eye and a mischievous grin on his face, “I don’t know, man. That shit worked pretty well back then.”

**

“Ok,” Liam said like a dad ready to plan or something as he, Harry, Niall, and Zayn sat down together in the office cafeteria. “What can the two of you tell us about why Louis and Rebecca broke up?”

Niall and Zayn looked at each other before Niall took the lead.

“Well, it’d been kind of awkward for months now, right? Like, they seemed to be mad at each other all the time. Or when Rebecca wasn’t mad, she was like begging for Louis to notice her. Which was weird. And this huge change from how they’d always been.”

Zayn nodded and picked up the story, “So that was why we asked him what was going on. Because it was like one day, Louis was talking about buying a ring” -- Harry’s stomach dropped out of his ass -- “and the next, he didn’t want to be near her. And we kinda knew that day. Because we were there that day. And we knew y’all,” Zayn nodded to Harry, “thought you were invisible, and honestly, none of us cared, so we did ignore y’all. But even _we_ could feel it. Some heavy sexual tension. Like Louis wanted to eat your face off and you’d just told him you were cool with cannibalism but he’d never considered it before.”

“Just so I’m clear,” Harry interrupted, brows furrowed, “You’re comparing being bisexual to being a cannibal?”

Niall cackled as Liam nearly spewed roast beef from his nose. Zayn smiled, a slight flush in his face. “Well, no. That wasn’t exactly what I meant. But I guess that is how it came out, huh?”

“What he’s _trying_ to say,” Niall interrupted after he’d finally stopped laughing, “is that Louis is probably the only person right now who doesn’t know he likes men. Louis is also the only person right now who doesn’t know he likes Harry.”

Harry blushed and dipped his head down, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves on that last point. The one before it makes so _much_ sense. So what is there to do then? I tried talking to him, and he just yelled at me.”

“Well of course he yelled at you,” Liam reasoned. “From what you told me, he doesn’t seem like the type to sit around, thinking about his feelings --”

“He’s not,” Zayn confirmed.

“-- so he knows something is different but can’t quite swallow it.” Then added smugly, “Pun intended.”

Niall hit the table, yelling, “Hey-oh!”

Harry was laughing again -- he really liked hanging out like this. Why hadn’t they been doing this for years? -- and finally managed, “Ok fine. Which leaves the same question: What am I supposed to do?”

Just as the other boys started to ponder, Harry felt a hand squeeze his shoulder and a body take the seat beside him. He knew before he turned that it wasn’t Louis. Whoever this was was too big, too intrusive. Which made Harry think that maybe it was…

“Nick,” he said as he turned his head. “Hello.”

Of all the people to be seeing right now. That ex he told Louis about? The one who’d destroyed him in college? Nick.

“Harry!” he said affectionately, as if the last time he’d seen him, Harry hadn’t been sobbing. “How are you? Do you work here? I can’t believe I haven’t seen you before!”

The other three boys were quiet, aware that this guest was not particularly welcome, based on the way Harry’s body had immediately stiffened, setting both feet firmly on the floor, ready to sprint if he needed to.

Nick was oblivious to this, and kept his hand on Harry’s shoulder, thinking it must be some kind of gift to Harry to be touching him again.

“Yeah, I do work here,” was all Harry said quietly.

“That’s lovely!” Nick replied, moving his hand from Harry’s shoulder into Harry’s hair, combing through his curls a little bit.

Harry was furious, he really was. What right did Nick have, showing up out of literally nowhere and touching Harry like he still had permission? But he was frozen, too. It had been too long with too much hurt to hold onto, and he apparently still couldn’t stand up to Nick, even though he’d done so a thousand times in his head. So while on the inside he was yelling at Nick to get his grimy paws _off_ , on the outside he stared straight ahead.

Liam, Niall, and Zayn looked dumbfounded too. They didn’t know the history. And while they definitely could tell Harry was uncomfortable, they were waiting for some kind of signal from him about what to do next.

“Oi!” Harry heard from behind him. His heart thudded. There was only one person who spoke like he was British when he was pissed off.

Louis.

Harry hadn’t turned, still frozen with Nick’s hand in his hair, but he could hear Louis bounding up behind him.

“Did Harry say you could touch him?” Louis said furiously, still beyond Harry’s eyesight.

Nick chuckled, “And who are you? His bodyguard? Surely not his boyfriend.”

Ouch. Harry forgot how passive-aggressive Nick could be. And how much it hurt.

“I’ll repeat my question, you arrogant cunt,” Louis spat. “Did. Harry. Say. You. Could. Touch. Him.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed, looking snakelike. His hand continued to run through Harry’s hair. “He doesn’t have to give me permission. I think after you fuck someone, you can touch them whenever you like.”

That was enough for several things to happen at once. Harry was finally past stunned and went straight to furious. But he knew Louis had lost his shit, so Harry pushed Nick’s hand away and quickly turned, putting himself between Louis -- who was currently flinging his body at Nick -- and Nick. Harry started pushing. He didn’t know what else to do. Louis was yelling obscenities at Nick, while Harry kept between them, pushing Louis out. Out of the cafeteria, out of the lobby, out of the building.

The last look Harry got the scene was of Liam, Niall, and Zayn all surrounding Nick like they were going to eat him alive. Cannibals, indeed.

“Louis! Calm down!” Harry said as soon as they stepped outside, as the older but smaller boy was still spitting rage. Fuck, it was hot outside. It was still July, and he was in his suit and button down, and immediately started sweating. Louis was too, but it almost looked like it wasn’t just from the humidity as he seemed to be coming to his senses and was realizing Harry was touching him at the shoulders. Harry looked down, also a little embarrassed since the heat of the moment had passed. He dropped his hands and murmured, “I mean. Thanks, though. For standing up for me.”

“He was making you uncomfortable?” Louis meant it as a statement, most likely, but it had come out as a question. “Of course I had to do something.”

“Well, yeah, he was. But that didn’t mean you had to be my knight in shining armor,” Harry said pointedly, looking up. It was like all of Louis’ actions pointed to the most obvious thing, and Harry was really tired of Louis not understanding that.

So here they were again. Alone. Air thick with the crackling of electricity. And in the _humidity_ too, for fuck’s sake. They’d destroy all of downtown like this.

Louis stood there, rubbing his neck, flicking his eyes from between Harry’s own and his feet.

“I know I’ve been kind of a dick,” he mumbled, mostly to his feet. Harry was so tired of him looking at his feet. He very gently lifted Louis’ chin with his index finger. Louis allowed his face to be lifted, and even made eye contact. He looked _terrified_. 

“I think you’ve been dealing with a lot,” Harry said gently, trying to push his waves of empathy into Louis through their eye contact. “And I really just want you to talk to me.”

Louis nodded and swallowed, but his eyes never left Harry’s. Harry’s finger was still under Louis’ chin, but he liked it there, so he left it. It didn’t seem like Louis minded; on the contrary, it seemed to be giving him more confidence.

“Harry,” he sighed, eyes wide and terrified. “I don’t know what’s going on. I thought I was straight. I never gave a second thought to it actually. I met Rebecca, and I loved her, and everything felt good, it did. And then I was sitting next to you, on my couch, and it was like, how could I have ever thought it was good with Rebecca? Even just touching your arm, it just felt...different. _Incredible_. And that scared the shit out of me.”

Louis closed his eyes and took a deep breath, struggling to convey all his confused feelings through words. Harry gave him a little bit of rope to hold onto, “Louis, I felt like I was in _heaven_ that day. Touching you, smelling you, feeling as you inhaled and exhaled. I never wanted to move.”

Louis still looked terrified, like he couldn’t believe a guy was saying this to him, but somewhere in the depths of those blue eyes, Harry saw some kind of spark. Relief, reciprocation. Enough of something to help Louis keep going.

“I just, I didn’t know what to do, Harry. Rebecca really was _so_ mad at me. She like wanted me to prove I was straight or something? She told me not to talk to you, and would like _challenge_ me to have sex with her. She would go through my phone to make sure I wasn’t texting you. And her jealousy was part of why I ended it because it was awful. But I think she and I both knew. I loved her. I had always loved her. But I hadn’t ever really been _in love_ with her. I honestly believed the whole time we were together that I was. And being next to you changed that in an instant.”

Louis finished with another deep breath, looking at Harry, who was finally, really smiling.

He said a little smugly, “So, you like me, huh?”

Some of the fear finally receded in Louis’ eyes as he rolled them. He was also smiling. A small smile, albeit, but a real smile. For Harry. 

“Yeah, you idiot. I like you.”

Harry beamed. “It’s about time you realized it.”

Louis shoved him just enough so that Harry’s hand fell. But it didn’t seem like Louis needed the encouragement to look up anymore.

“I probably always knew it, and you always knew that I always knew, but you don’t have to be an ass about it,” Louis said, still smiling somewhat shyly.

Harry laughed, and they stayed that way, facing each other, considering each other, as the rest of the world went by them. 

“You’re this shiver that I can’t shake,” Louis finally said, looking Harry squarely in the eye.

That gave the confidence Harry finally needed. He took a deep breath, stepping into Louis’ personal space. Louis didn’t flinch, but his eyes were wide, almost in fear. Fear of the unknown. Harry was scared too, but for a different reason. This was what he’s wanted for _ever_. Pretty much since he met Louis. And here he was, strangely in charge of a situation that included the boy with the gravitational pull, almost as if he, Harry, had his own gravitational pull that Louis fell into. 

The fact that they were in public -- just in front of their office building -- didn’t even matter. It wouldn’t have mattered to Harry regardless, but it not mattering to _Louis_ made Harry’s heart swell. They were doing this. They were going to do this.

Those morning sky eyes flicked between Harry’s eyes and lips, while licking his own lips subconsciously. He could see the desire in those eyes. Those beautiful eyes that belonged to the beautiful boy who made Harry feel electric. 

It was that knowledge that gave Harry the courage to cup Louis’ cheek in his hand, close his eyes, lean forward, and

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry this took longer to post. I got caught up in starting Part 2, which is up next! Thanks to everyone for reading and giving this/me a chance. I'd love to hear what y'all think about this part. No spoilers but Part 2 is a major shift, and I can't wait for y'all to read it <3 <3
> 
> I should have something soon <3 LOVE Y'ALL


	5. Part 2 - 1945 - Chapter 1

It’d been a while, Louise thought, since the smoke had burned her throat, her nostrils, her lungs. Something soothing, something used for comfort, something to help pass the time.

Of course, it’s not ladylike at all. If any of her friends caught her with a cigarette between her lips, they’d faint. Dear Lord, her mother might drop dead. 

It’s not as if it would occur to anyone that the real problem wasn’t that Louise was smoking. The real question should be how she managed to  _ get _ a real cigarette. Most people (men, really) stateside haven’t been able to regularly count on their tobacco for years. The men overseas had them in their C ration. Something about boosting their morale. It might have made Louise roll her eyes an hour ago, but enjoying this Lucky Strike was all she needed to be sueded. Of  _ course _ it boosted morale. She felt wonderful after only a few drags.

Harriet always knew how to get the best stuff. The coffee she’d left with Louise the week prior was so full-bodied that she needn’t more than half a cup to satisfy her craving. She’d stored the rest away for when she really  _ needed _ it.

Louise sighed out more smoke. Tobacco. Caffeine. Harriet. All in her bloodstream, giving her energy, life, purpose.

It was at that moment that there was a prompt knock on her front door. Speak of the devil.  _ Harriet _ , Louise already knew, enjoying the last few pulls of the cigarette, burning it to the filter, stubbing it out, and moving quickly to let her new friend in.

“Louise, dear!” Harriet greeted warmly, ever the baked good in her arms. “Not smoking, were you?” she added with a wink as Louise let her into their sitting room.

“Never, darling,” she replied with a lazy grin, taking the dish from Harriet. “What did you bring me this time?”

“I thought you might enjoy a nice meatloaf to help you in your time of grieving,” Harriet waved her hand as she made herself comfortable on her favorite couch.

Louise rolled her eyes to herself as she turned to put the meatloaf in the kitchen.  _ Oh yes _ , she thought,  _ grieving widow indeed _ . 

It wasn’t that her life with Steve had been terrible. And it’s not like she was  _ glad _ he’d died in the South Pacific, heavens no. She had, in fact, been rather distraught. She’d met Harriet at a gathering of war widows, meant to support and share in their sorrows. When she first saw Harriet, trying to keep a smirk off her face as one young lady shared the tragic story of losing her husband at Pearl Harbor, Louise was furious in fact.  _ Show some respect _ , she’d thought huffing internally.

Oh how her first impression of Harriet had been wrong. Harriet’s first impression of her had been chillingly accurate, and she was grateful every day for it.

“What on earth is taking you so long, my love?” Harriet called from the sitting room, pulling Louise back into the present. “You better be preparing the delicious lemonade I brought here just the other day…” her voice trailing in suggestion.

Louise smiled to herself, grabbing two glasses from the cupboard. She was hopeless in the kitchen and had long since needed to keep it full on behalf of a husband, so Harriet herself had kept it full single-handedly. For  _ Louise _ . Not for any man.  _ Louise _ . Because she mattered. Simple.

The lemonade really  _ was _ delicious.

“Coming, darling!” she called back, with two glasses in hand.

Harriet greeted Louise with her wide, unabashed smile, taking the proffered glass. She was the only woman Louise had  _ never _ seen cover her smile. And she shouldn’t. It was beautiful. Louise couldn’t decide if Harriet’s green eyes or smile were lovelier. She changed her mind every day. She hadn’t yet made up her mind for today.

Louise herself was slim, with slender shoulders, wide (“good childbirthing,” her mother said) hips. She felt unremarkable. Except when Harriet made her  _ glow _ .

Louise settled on the couch next to the beautiful creature just as she was saying, “What are we to get up to today, my little Lulu? We could knit scarves for our brave men fighting abroad. We could scourge the streets to find recyclables and support the war effort. Or,” she grinned wickedly, “ we could do absolutely nothing but gossip and pour a bit of tonic into our tea.”

They shared secret smiles as Harriet took Louise’s hands into her own. “Whatever we do today,” she said sweetly, caressing Louise with her eyes, “it must be a ‘we’ effort, yes?

Louise lifted one hand out of Harriet’s to move it to her cheek, brushing gently, still a little hesitant to touch her in what felt like an intimate way, “Always a ‘we’, my dear.”

Harriet’s smile broadened again, making Louise’s own heart flutter.

“I do fancy knitting, actually,” Harriet said finally, reaching into her bag for her needles and yarn. “And we can still gossip, of course.”


	6. Part 2 - 1945 - Chapter 2

“You really should be more respectful,” Louise said, finally verbalizing her internal fury. She kept her voice calm, however, when addressing this woman she’d never seen before as they both happened to be exiting the house of their generous hostess simultaneously. The spring evening was chilly enough that they’d still needed sweaters.

The strange woman turned, her expression pleasant, “Would you care to explain what you mean, dear?”

Louise didn’t appreciate  _ that _ pet name. Like she was being patronized. By a stranger. She sniffed in the air a bit as she responded with a touch more bite in her voice, “All these women have lost their husbands in the War, and you’re sitting in the corner, smug, judging us all. To be here, you must’ve lost your own husband.”

“I did. And my brother as well,” she said softly, eyes dancing over Louise.

“Well then you  _ know _ what we’re all going through, and it’s horrible! But you come in with some sort of  _ superiority _ like you know how to handle it better than the rest of us, and your only goal was to witness our inferior way of mourning!” Louise finished with a huff, careful to keep her voice low, even as the passion seeped through.

“Oh, my dear,” she murmured, looking at Louise with an expression that she couldn’t identify at first. Then it hit her.

Affection. This woman was looking at her with affection. How strange. Louise wasn’t sure if it had been more strange that it was in the stranger’s eyes to begin with or that she couldn’t immediately identify it.

Who in the world was this woman?

They’d been standing on the sidewalk for too long already; all the other women had dispersed into the night. While Louise knew she needed to be walking home herself, she was rooted to the very spot, held there by the stranger’s gaze, now reflecting curiosity, affection lingering in the shadows. Perhaps there was a faint flicker of pride buried in there too. It was unsettling to be looked at by eyes that contained every emotion a person was feeling. It almost felt indecent.

Louise had never been looked at so openly before; it made her feel exposed even though it was this woman who was really on display.

Rather than let it unnerve her, Louise was the most comfortable in her anger, so she proceeded accordingly. “Why are you looking at me like that!” she demanded.

The woman made no movement; her feet were planted as they had been the entire conversation, arms carefully folded in front of her, head slightly tilted to the left, and those green  _ eyes _ penetrating Louise’s own.

Finally, quietly, she answered with a question, “You’re rather outspoken, aren’t you?”

“When I see the need to speak up, I do!” Louise retorted, not meaning to sound so petulant. She very nearly crossed her arms over her chest like a child in a temper.

“And your need to speak up now stems from what you believe is my own disrespect and disregard for the grieving widows in our meeting?” she clarified, still unmoving, save for her mouth.

“Well, yes!” And this time, Louise  _ did _ in fact cross her arms over her chest. Insufferable woman! They were getting nowhere.

The stranger’s mouth lifted up at the right corner with Louise’s last movement ( _ Was she actually  _ smiling? Louise thought in outrage), and she seemed to make her mind up about something, verbalizing that very decision with a question: “What is it exactly that you miss about your husband?”

It was spoken in the same soft, calm voice she’d been using, disarming Louise instantly both in her awareness that this was not an attack, a challenge, and also in her inability to provide an immediate answer. She’d opened her mouth, ready to throw back harsh words, but the question was so unexpected that she’d closed her mouth immediately and began to ponder.

Steve had been gone long enough, both in war and in death, that it was becoming harder and harder to recall the details of their life together. Louise remembered how kind he was. He was very kind to her, her sisters, her mother. Her father had loved him. She remembered how she smelled and that he used to talk in his sleep. Steve came from a good family; good enough, at least, that Louise had always been very comfortable. He was never late from work and always noticed when she was wearing something new, particularly if he’d given it to her.

These details scattered about as she tried to collect them. She could easily use them as her answer. It would make for a very weak answer, though, she knew.

What suddenly made sense didn’t really make sense at all. How had Louise not noticed? How had she not noticed that she missed none of those things? Her husband’s death, from the very first notification, had felt more like a fact. Louise’s ancestors were from England. Fact. She had a very large family. Fact. She loved coffee and hated roses. Fact. Her husband, Steve, had died during World War II. Fact. She was a widow. Fact.

Upon receiving the news, she knew what she was supposed to do in her new situation. Thanks to proper breeding, she always knew the appropriate action and reaction for every situation. So, she adopted a permanent somber expression and kept his handkerchief in her clutch. She managed a few tears at his funeral and graciously accepted all condolences. She said his name with pride because he had sacrificed his life for the greatest cause. She attended widow support meetings. 

But was that the support she was truly seeking? She hardly ever even spoke in the meetings. Mostly, she listened attentively and nodded empathetically. (Or were they really sympathetic nods?) If she didn’t need support from other widows -- and apparently she didn’t? -- where else did she go for support? What did she need support for, for that matter? What did she really  _ need _ ? Louise was getting dizzy by the circles going round in her head.

And when her mind had made its way back to the woman’s original question, Louise’s arms dropped from her chest as she stared openly and dumbfoundedly without any idea of what to say or do next.

“What’s your name?” she asked Louise kindly, realizing that no answer to her previous question was forthcoming. Perhaps she hadn’t expected one. Perhaps she knew this about Louise before Louise knew it about herself.

“Louise,” she replied softly, with a scratch in her throat.

“My name is Harriet,” Harriet supplied with the kindest smile that had ever been bestowed upon Louise. It made her heart ache in a way it never had before, and she couldn’t quite understand that either.

“What --,” Louise began, paused, and started again, “what do you miss about  _ your _ husband?”

Harriet smiled wide enough that Louise noticed dimples in her cheeks. They were lovely.

“Nothing, darling,” she said, her voice warm and so comforting. “Nothing at all.”

She’d said what Louise had only barely begun to understand. She’d said it gently, but with confidence. She’d said it without a moment’s hesitation. She’d said it without apology. Louise wasn’t sure she’d ever met anyone so sure before.

_ Well _ , she realized,  _ never a  _ woman _ this confident before _ .

It was well past sundown, and Louise’s sweater had long since provided protection from the night air. But with Harriet smiling at her and talking to her and giving her ideas and filling her heart and head, the night was as bright and as warm as if the sun was standing in front of her.

Certainly in no way reminiscent of Steve at all.

It reminded her of that time in the night just before dawn, when it’s still dark enough that nothing can be seen without an artificial light. But buried in the deepest subconscious is the knowledge that a peek of some natural light was just minutes, seconds away. It was about to reveal every surrounding. Would it be frightening, whatever it was in the surrounding? 

Louise would never be able to unsee what the dawn admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really /really/ love writing in 1945, and I love working with Harry and Louis with this dynamic. I hope y'all are enjoying, as well. Love everyone for reading. Leave a comment if you'd like! <3


	7. Part 2 - 1945 - Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to post this; last week was really busy/stressful.

As the two ladies idly knitted their latest war efforts in the comfort of Louise’s living room, Harriet thought back to that first night, Louise confronting her, resembling a ruffled baby duckling -- frustrated, needing a line to follow. Perhaps a different line, though, than the one she’d been following all her life. 

All Harriet needed to see were those flushed cheeks and passionate eyes to know. To _know_.

Front, back, over, under, draw: Their rhythmic needles clicked, Harriet’s chosen color a soft yellow, while Louise had opted for a dark green.

“I think knitting and needlework were two household necessities I actually _enjoy_ ,” Louise murmured into their comfortable silence.

Harriet hummed in response, then added after a pause, “Mine was cooking, of course. She thought for an extra few seconds, always wondering how much was too much to share with Louise. She hadn’t yet pushed too far and wanted to confide, so she proceeded, “It started out simply as a safe-haven from my father for both Mother and me. And then it was the only place Howard left me alone, too. Enjoying it, being good at it, were simply secondary benefits.”

Louise kept steadily with her rhythm, nodding in a silent acknowledgement. Then she inquired, “What was your least favorite of the expectations?”

“Oh goodness, let’s see. Always having to wear dresses and skirts, uncomfortable shoes, never being allowed to have an opinion. Being hit rather hard when I persisted regardless,” Harriet softly catalogued.

She was pushing even more, wondering where the boundaries were. Steadfast as always though, accompanied only by a sharp intake of breath, Harriet soon felt a very small, soft hand on her forearm, gently squeezing. Her shoulders relaxed immediately.

“Thanks, love,” Harriet sighed, dropping a needle to wrap her own fingers around Louise’s, lifting the smaller hand to her lips and placing a gentle kiss on the upturned palm. She held it there a minute longer, enjoying the vanilla scent that always accompanied the older woman. 

It was her brother who had died in the War, James, who had moulded her into this independent woman that society so despised. James had _hated_ Howard, but all the other men had hated Harriet. Well, Howard had too, really, but he was so desperate to marry with the impending threat of war that he supposed she would suffice, which he reminded her of almost every hour. 

Harriet did in fact weep when she received the news of Howard’s death. She wept with relief, joy, freedom. But James’ death wasn’t long after, and _that_ was real grief. She wondered briefly if God wanted to make sure she suffered. Indifference toward your husband? Well, let me take away your brother, then.

She snorted internally. _God, indeed._

Pulling herself back into the present, she replaced Louise’s hand to her own lap, cleared her throat and asked, “What was your least favorite? Other than the kitchen that is?”

Louise laughed, the knowing smirk forming on Harriet’s face, and the mood was more to Harriet’s liking. She could talk all day about the hardships of womanhood, but it wouldn’t do anyone any good to live in sadness.

“There were no other options, really, so I never gave it much thought. I never questioned _anything_ until you,” Louise said, with such affection that it made Harriet’s heart swell. “And now I’m bringing in everything to question. Holding it up to the light for validity. I’m learning my own mind and heart.”

“Everything you are is everything you’ve always been,” Harriet gently declared, unable to take claim of Louise’s bravery and brilliance.

“Yes,” Louise persisted, shifting on the couch so her knees were touching Harriet’s, “but it’s because of _you_.”

Harriet smiled and probed a little further, “And what’s in your heart and mind, darling?”

Louise took a few moments before replying. It looked to Harriet as though she was carefully composing an answer.

“Well truthfully, I’m still learning a lot. But what I’ve learned the most is to trust myself.” She added softly, “And I know what love is now. _Real_ love. How it feels to be _truly_ loved.”

Harriet dropped her needles immediately, heart overwhelmed, tears having sprung in her eyes in the same second. She placed one hand gently on Louise’s cheek and pulled her face close. Softly, so softly, she pressed her lips to Louise’s, lingering there as she enjoyed the light taste of whiskey and lemonade. She pulled back, and Louise’s returning smile threatened the sun’s supremacy. 

The kissing was new, and it was perfect. Beautiful. Harriet was dimly aware of a future, knew what she wanted, _really_ wanted, with Louise in time. It was a fantasy in her head, feeling almost too bold even for _her_ to be thinking about. She remembered how invasive it had felt with Howard. His own desires greedy, pulsing through his fingertips, rough with his mouth, unforgiving everywhere else. But inside her head, with Louise it would be nothing but beautiful, pleasurable, loving. Connecting them in a way no one else could rob them of.

There was no rush. There would be no returning husbands. Both had enough money to stay comfortable for a while. So they had time. Kissing Louise was a privilege in itself; Harriet bathed in the sweetest and simplest motions and emotions.

They had returned to their knitting, but Harriet’s hands were beginning to cramp so she set her needles down on Louise’s coffee table and folded her hands back in her lap, sighing only once in contemplation. Louise had followed Harriet’s lead by putting her own needles down as well, and looked at Harriet with a patient curiosity, knowing Harriet’s restless tendencies, awaiting instructions for what was to come.

“You know, I do believe I noticed my tulips needed tending to,” Harriet finally mulled out, mind still reaching out to explore ideas. “It would be nice to enjoy this weather outside for a bit. Unless maybe you’d like a stroll?”

“Let’s stroll back over to your house and then tend to the tulips!” Louise seemed quite delighted with herself at having combined the two.

“Yes, let’s, my dear. Why don’t you change into something more fit for soil and I’ll clean everything up here and in the kitchen,” Harriet suggested, smiling proudly at the blossom sitting in front of her. 

Harriet lived on the other side of the town square, which was how the two women had not met before the widow’s group. Through their stroll through town, the two ladies linked arms -- casually; women all over town did this with their friends -- and made the walk, talking softly, laughing loudly, each flushed under the sun and attention of the other.

Louise didn’t take notice of some of the other women who stared at them as they passed the food store, barbershop, and toy store; those ladies put their heads together, and Harriet knew what they were thinking and saying: How could _Louise_ associate with someone as barbaric as _Harriet_ ? Louise was part of all the right ladies’ clubs. The same clubs that hadn’t bothered returning Harriet’s inquiries. Oh, Harriet could practically hear them. _Louise comes from such a_ good _family. I can’t imagine what Steve would say if he could see this! Rolling around in his grave! And her mother, poor thing_. 

Only mere weeks ago, Louise would have been wrapped in that circle, gossiping about _that odd, tall woman_ . Mere weeks ago, Harriet wouldn’t have given second consideration to the idly chattering women, not distinguishing Louise from their circle. But Louise had _fire_ in her. It was kindling that night on the sidewalk, but Harriet knew. A good stoke of the flame, and Louise was awake. _Alive_.

 _Her’s_.

When they reached Harriet’s house, Louise stayed outside to survey the garden and task that lay ahead while Harriet went to change into her own gardening clothes. They were soon digging around in the soil, pruning and weeding taking up the majority of their time and attention.

As their hands were kept busy, their minds wandered and mouths moved to wherever their wanderings had landed them. 

Louise fell silent at one point, and Harriet knew she was molding the articulation of ideas she had only barely begun to be conscious of. Harriet knew to keep the silence; Louise always just needed a moment or two. 

This time was no different, as Louise suddenly said, “I don’t actually think I would’ve made a very good mother.” She said it softly, as if God might overhear and impregnate her for the verbalized betrayal.

“Why do you say that?” Harriet demured.

Louise sighed, “My children would’ve taken ownership of me much like everyone else in my life.”

The soil beneath her saw Harriet’s surprise rather than Louise. “You certainly _do not_ let others _own_ you,” she stated firmly. You spared no thought to confront me that night. You protected your beliefs.”

Louise laughed hollowly, “Yes, I was standing up for beliefs that had no foundation other than my own family and husband insisting upon them. You asked one question, and the very foundation of that life fell apart around me.”

“You know very well that most women wouldn’t have given me second consideration. They’d have dismissed me as wrong, insane, cruel, while clutching to their foundation, cracked though it may be. You’re so _brave_ , love. You allowed your mind to be challenged, and you’re building _your own_ foundation. So you won’t ever feel like you’re falling again.”

She paused to let Louise consider this. When the other woman didn’t speak up again, Harriet added, “You’d be such a wonderful mother. You’d teach your children -- your _daughters_ \-- to be strong like you.”

“You --,” Louise broke off, biting her lip and still looking at the weeds piled up next to her, “you really believe so?”

“I _know_ it, love. But even so, you shouldn’t have to feel guilty for not wanting children in the first place. Is that what you also mean? You said you wouldn’t be a good mother, but would you _like_ to be a mother?” Harriet already very much knew her own answer to this question.

Louise considered that, much like she’d considered Harriet’s question about what she missed about Steve. ( _Steve_. Harriet hated him and how the jealousy overtook her. But it was insulting to hate the dead, so she avoided his name.) Louise’s eyes fell away, another piece of that foundation falling, falling but already being replaced by something more firm, concrete. 

“No one ever asked me. I don’t actually know,” Louise finally provided, and Harriet understood. No one _ever_ asked. No one else probably would ever ask.

“Well,” Harriet said slowly, “it’s certainly worth consideration. And you have time to do just that.”

Louise nodded, losing herself over to thought, suddenly attacking Harriet's stubborn rose bush. She stabbed through a rose so viciously that it looked as though she held a dagger rather than a spade. Harriet turned back to her own task of pruning, letting Louise work out her frustrations, until her stomach rumbled and she announced it was time for them to go inside and eat.

They enjoyed Harriet’s magnificent and creative combination of cole slaw and frankfurters before following the sun’s advice and settling down for the evening. As they sat together wrapped together in a blanket on Harriet’s couch, she kept her nose in Louise’s hair, the constant inhale and exhale of her love’s scent soothing her, with the quiet sounds of the radio pulling them both towards sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 is turning out to be very character-devlopment heavy, particularly this chapter. I hope it wasn't too dull or slow! I think it's important to watch Louise work through all these revolutionary ideas. And I wanted to give Harriet a voice too.
> 
> I love character development stories. Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince is an excellent example of such a book. Also, The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Two of my favorite books.
> 
> Next chapter has some more action coming up! I'm excited to write it. Love everyone! <3


	8. Part 2 - 1945 - Chapter 4

Harriet hummed to herself as she walked through town, carrying a paper bag, not endeavoring to keep her voice to herself. She received some unkind glances as she made her way by the post office, past the flower shop, near the park benches. 

She couldn’t be quite bothered to care. 

It was all held in that paper bag. She had new cigarettes  _ and _ coffee for Louise, and she felt clouds rather than pavement under her feet as she glided toward the blue eyes and flushed cheeks unknowingly awaiting her arrival. Making her way up to Louise’s front door, she internalized her humming, sending vibrations through her bloodstream. Much like how some people were addicted to the caffeine and nicotine she carried in her paper bag, she was addicted to  _ Louise _ . She was in love. She didn’t quite know how to tell Louise that, not yet. So she settled for surprises. Every time she knew she was about to see Louise, with her crinkled eyes and genuine smile, her body thrummed in anticipation. 

Louise seemed thrilled by surprises, as if she couldn’t understand why someone would take the time to carefully think these intentions through. For that reason alone, Harriet took upon herself surprising Louise every chance she could, spoiling her with soft kisses and tender looks and gentle touches. The occasional gifts when she saw something she knew Louise would love. This was one such surprise aligned with the more concrete ones, and she knew it would thrill Louise. When Louise was thrilled, Harriet felt her heart pulse in her very bones, her soul.

They were long past knocking, so Harriet pushed the front door gently open; upon seeing an empty sitting room, Harriet called out, “Louise, dear! I have a surprise for you!”

There was a clatter in the kitchen that pulled Harriet in like a magnet. She was too excited. She wanted Louise to be smiling as soon as she saw her -- which she usually was, regardless, but Harrier wanted to be  _ sure _ \-- so she called out again, “I brought more cigarettes! And the  _ good _ cof--.”

Harriet broke off at the end of her sentence, faced not with Louise’s smiling features, but with open hostility radiating off from a lady with Louise’s eyes perched at her kitchen table. Louise, standing at the sink, clearly having whipped around only a moment ago, looked terrified. Her mouth was open in horror as she stared at Harriet. (She’d never looked at Harriet like that before, and it stung upon impact.) Then Louise’s eyes dropped to the woman at the table, who was still looking at Harriet with a thin-lipped mouth and an arched brow.

Taking in the horror emanating from Louise, noting the way her eyes darted back and forth between her mother and Harriet, and feeling the loathing pulse from Mrs. Tomlinson, Harriet was rather frozen. It’s not that she hadn’t dealt with disapproval before this; up until a few months ago, her own skin cells were constructed from it. But sensing Louise’s sheer terror gave her pause. She cleared her throat and tried uselessly to hide the paper bag behind her back. Useless because it was clear the damage had already been done. ( _ Why _ did she have to shout it from the rooftops like that?) Still, she put on her best smile, trying so, so hard to ignore the fact that she had simply never been as charming as society demanded her be. 

Silence ensued as Mrs. Tomlinson’s eyes roamed over Harriet’s features in a way she was all too familiar with. She knew Mrs. Tomlinson was taking in her unkempt curly hair, too-wide mouth, too-tall frame, too-large hands. She was examining Harriet’s decade-old dress and beat-up Mary Janes. She lingered on Harriet’s slumped shoulders, unadorned face, toned calves. Harriet usually never took the scrutiny so silently, but frozen still were her every offending features. She knew she’d have to open her mouth again eventually, relax her posture, as the only way to stand up to this woman, but that would immediately put Louise in danger of criticism by mere association, and Harriet was stalling.

She hadn’t put much thought toward Mrs. Tomlinson before. Given everything Louise had always said about her mother -- critical, cold, judgmental, harsh at times -- she knew Mrs. Tomlinson would see her as every other society woman had seen her, but didn’t linger on those thoughts too long. Mostly she thought she’d never meet the woman. It wasn’t as if she even particularly wanted this woman to approve of her, so like the rest she was. What really struck Harriet’s heart, instead, was how Louise’s features had morphed from shock to the same scrutinizing expression her mother wore, as if she was re-evaluating Harriet through the same lens everyone else looked through. It had been a long time since Louise had seen her through society’s lens, and even then, it wasn’t so terrible because Harriet was a stranger. But now. Louise  _ knows _ Harriet, and still. She could see Louise’s analysis, cataloguing every detail about Harriet that she knew her mother would not approve of. Her pretty mouth was pulled into a frown, and the crinkles in her eyes weren’t from laughter; they held the same sense of disapproval emanating from her mother. 

It broke her heart.

She was all too familiar with the feeling of rejection. What she’d really never experienced was acceptance. Acceptance that Louise graced her with every day. And Harriet could see it receding in those beautiful blue eyes. Those blue eyes who held fear in every corner, caused by the woman sitting at her kitchen table. Louise had never handled criticism well, and now that her mother knew of her very best friend (Would she deny they were friends?), Harriet could see her re-examining her decision and impulse to associate with the strange new woman. It took her breath away, as if her rib cages were pulled too tight by a string connected to Louise’s furrowed brow.

Harriet couldn’t tell how many minutes had passed as Mrs. Tomlinson scrutinized her. Previous experiences told her that a woman of this kind would hold an uncomfortable silence for as long as she was given, and Harriet had long since practiced taking that silence away. With Louise looking at her in such a similar vein, she finally found the courage to break the silence, in hopes more so of winning Louise back (Had she lost her?) than of controlling damage with Mrs. Tomlinson. So she cleared her throat and put on her best smile, knowing it was too wide and the battle was already lost.

“You must be Mrs. Tomlinson,” Harriet said, managing to inject warmth into her voice. She focused on the eyes, so similar to Louise’s, but ice outlined the pupils more so than a summer morning sky.

“Yes,” the woman stated simply, moving nothing other than her tight-lipped mouth, and Harriet was pretty sure Mrs. Tomlinson  _ still  _ hadn’t blinked the entire time they’d all been in the kitchen together. Impressive.

“My name is Harriet,” she said, with a slight curtsey, determined the next words would be a  _ statement _ and not a question, “a friend of Louise’s.”

Both Harriet and Mrs. Tomlinson turned to look at Louise after this statement. Harriet, looking so hopefully, wishing that warmth would pool back into her eyes. Mrs. Tomlinson, with clear disdain. And here Louise was, caught in the middle of a silent war between her mother’s approval and Harriet’s heart. Harriet could see in her eyes that she wasn’t mediating the conflicts well. Her scrutiny of Harriet had morphed back in an instant to fear as Mrs. Tomlinson’s hawk-like gaze had zeroed back in on her, subjecting her to the same scrutiny she’d just been administering to Harriet. She wouldn’t look at Harriet, so locked into her mother’s gaze, held under her metaphorical thumb. 

_ Look at me, please _ , Harriet implored silently. If Louise would just  _ look _ at her, she could arm Louise with love and tenderness, confidence. Those were the weapons Louise really needed against this cruel woman.

Still looking at Louise, Mrs. Tomlinson finally spoke, having controlled the silence once more, “Is that so?”

Louise suddenly dropped her eyes, studiously attending her tiled kitchen floor. “Yes,” barely breathed out of Louise’s mouth. Harriet wasn’t even sure she saw that lovely mouth  _ move _ to form the word. Her heart sank that much lower.

“Really?” Mrs. Tomlinson prompted coldy, clearly wanting to humiliate and disgrace her daughter further, knowing the effect she had on her, pressing into Louise’s clear discomfort at having been caught with such an unconventional confidante. Harriet couldn’t stand it. Even if Louise had already decided to never associate with her again, she would  _ not _ let this awful woman bully  _ her _ Louise. Her strong, beautiful, thoughtful, proud Louise.

“I do believe it’s been made very clear that we have a friendship,” Harriet chirped, pulling Mrs. Tomlinson’s eyes from her daughter (Did she crick her neck turning so quickly?) and pulling her daughter’s eyes from the floor just for the briefest moment to glance at Harriet before turning her gaze downward again. Harriet wasn’t sure, really, if she was helping or not, as she kept her cold eyes and pleasant smile trained on Mrs. Tomlinson. She just knew she’d rather bear the brunt of this awful woman’s wrath, rather than leaving Louise broken into pieces. She didn’t have to wait long for the new attack.

“And how exactly does my daughter know you?” she asked, arching that eyebrow back up. Harriet would laugh at how cliche Mrs. Tomlinson was if it weren’t such a terrible situation.

“We met at a war widows gathering,” Harriet replied simply, giving Mrs. Tomlison as little reason as possible to belittle Louise from a mere fact.

Mission accomplished as both eyebrows rose this time, focused solely on her, “You were  _ married _ ?”

She said it so pointedly, yet so delicately that it couldn’t be pointed to as rude as it sliced through the air. It was another insult Harriet had encountered many times before, though; she could almost yawn, fight with one arm behind her back. “Yes,” she replied simply.

“I wonder what my daughter could have  _ possibly _ had to say to you,” Mrs. Tomlinson said coldly, not needing to face Louise to make her wince at the slight. Clearly Mrs. Tomlinson thought she’d raised a daughter who should know on instinct not to talk to a woman like Harriet.

But Harriet was still determined to keep Mrs. Tomlinson’s wrath focused on herself, which was only emphasized as she saw Louise practically cower at the sink, and that was without her mother even actually having to directly address her with the statement.

“Your daughter was very concerned about me,” Harried said with a hint of a smile. “She’s very kind.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Tomlinson countered, “perhaps a little  _ too _ kind when it comes to certain matters.”

“I disagree, Mrs. Tomlinson,” Harriet replied, hoping that eventually Louise would chime in. A double-front defense would win out, surely. She kept flicking her eyes back to Louise’s face, but the latter refused to make any sort of eye contact. Harriet couldn’t overthink it or she’d surely drown. “Louise has so much kindness to give. It would be a shame for her to hold it in.”

_ Look at me, please _ , Harriet chanted her mantra.

“Some people should be left to handle their own troubles and not drag innocent young women into them,” Mrs. Tomlinson declared with her air of superiority.

“On the contrary, all people deserve kindness. Even those with a stiff upper back and stiff upper lip,” Harriet countered, trying to take hold of the situation a little more. Mrs. Tomlinson was tougher than other women. Perhaps she felt she had more to fight for. Harriet did, too, but was beginning to realize she really couldn’t fight Mrs. Tomlinson on her own.

“Oh, but you see,  _ those _ are the strong people,” Mrs. Tomlinson quipped, lifting her voice as if this were obvious. “Those who don’t  _ need _ help, don’t air dirty laundry, don’t lure young ladies with sinful temptations.”

“Sinful temptations?” Harriet laughed, as if it were the most ridiculous thing she’d heard. But from such a religious -- traditional -- upbringing, Harriet knew Mrs. Tomlinson believed this with her whole, cold heart.

“Yes. Like  _ cigarettes _ .” Mrs. Tomlinson sniffed the air delicately. “People who bring that riff raff around well-bred young ladies, especially at such a time of vulnerability, are people who do  _ not _ deserve kindness and should not be welcomed into a home without even the necessity of  _ knocking _ .” Well that was obviously pointed, but wasn’t the rest of it already?

_ Look at me please _ .

“Mrs. Tomlison, I’m not quite sure what it is you’re trying to say,” Harriet had used this tactic before too. She was daring this woman to be blatantly rude, as so few society women were able to do. Apparently, Mrs. Tomlinson, pushed far enough at this point, was well up for the task.

“Let me make myself  _ quite plain _ , then,  _ Harriet _ ,” Mrs. Tomlinson uttered her name with as much contempt as she might ‘Adolf Hilter’, “my daughter is too good for you and is  _ too kind _ to say it herself. So I’m saying it for her. Please take your atrocious  _ gifts _ back to the devil, see yourself out of this house, and do not seek her out ever again.”

She finished with a satisfied smirk, as Harriet felt like lead was being poured over her, felt it drip all the way down her body. Mrs. Tomlinson was ruthless.  _ Look at me, please.  _ Rules of society were very clear, and yet, who would believe Harriet if she exposed Mrs. Tomlinson’s faux pas? Who would take Harriet’s side?  _ Louise _ still hadn’t, still wouldn’t even  _ look _ at her.  _ Look at me, please. _ The thought of Harriet exposing this woman for what she truly was sounded laughable. Louise was her only ally. Mrs. Tomlinson had won with Louise, won period. 

Harriet looked helplessly at Louise, just one last time, hoping, barely hoping, she’d say  _ something _ , anything, to her mother for tearing Harriet down. One last chance.  _ Look at me, please.  _ But Louise wouldn’t. Her eyes were resolutely glued to the floor, a faint blush brushing her cheeks, and Harriet  _ knew _ that was the sound of her heart physically shattering, falling piece by piece from her chest cavity, shards cutting through her lungs, tearing into her stomach, piercing her muscles, ripping her veins, as they fell down, down, down.

Harriet glanced once more at Mrs. Tomlison’s smirk, and turned out of the room, barely concealing that she was indeed running through the front door and beyond, a sob building deep in her otherwise empty chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm not too pleased with the end of this but I couldn't keep staring at it. I've held onto it for wayyyy too long. Love y'all, thanks for reading <3333


	9. Part 2 - 1945 - Chapter 5

She thought Harriet had arrived early. They’d agreed the day prior to a date with a vague acknowledgement that it would be at some point in the afternoon. But both had taken to rising late, so when there came a knock on her door not long after the noon hour, she was surprised and elated; she’d just that moment been wishing Harriet would come soon.

Her joyous bubble popped immediately upon opening the door. One look into those icy eyes, arched brow, thin lips, and she was instantly back in her childhood home trying desperately to appease her mother, an impossible task.

“Please tell me,” her mother started, venomously quiet, still on the outside of the door, “that I’m not finding you at this hour in your dressings.”

Louise thought briefly of slamming the door, waking up from this nightmare, saving herself. But she knew this was indeed her reality, and that would only serve to make things worse. Much, much worse.

“Hello, Mother,” she said quietly, looking down at her mother’s clenched hands.

“Good afternoon, Louise,” her mother replied, quiet and calm, but with all the threat of a storm brewing under the surface. “Have you lost your sense of manners so quickly that you won’t invite your mother into your home? It’s rather warm outside.”

“Oh!” Louise startled, and jumped to action, already feeling smaller, “Please come in, Mother.”

“Why thank you,  _ dear _ ,” her mother replied facetiously, sweeping inside as though she owned all its possessions and the inhabitant.

As their afternoon progressed, her mother continued to do what she always did best: criticize and belittle Louise. She was dimly aware that she had been previously excited about something today, but that felt like a distant memory. She was, of course, immediately reminded when she heard her door swing open, followed by a melodious voice calling out to her. By this point though, it made her stomach drop rather than soar.

She was at the sink, cleaning up from their afternoon tea; she dropped the teapot she was washing into the sink (thank goodness it didn’t break), and the sound brought Harriet immediately into the kitchen.

The whole encounter was as awful as Louise could’ve imagined it to be. Looking at Harriet through her mother’s eyes widened her lens quite a bit. How had she not noticed Harriet  _ was _ rather loud? Or that her clothes were dreadfully threadbare? She was so crushed under her mother’s weighted judgment already that she feared for the repercussions sure to come of associating with Harriet. As her mother and friend sparred back and forth, Louise, capable of nothing else in that moment, thought back to that night long ago when she’d seen Harriet exactly as her mother did. She remembered her indignance at Harriet’s self-righteousness, her outrage at the arrogant smile. Louise couldn’t help but wonder if her mother was right. Had Harriet taken advantage of her as she grieved her husband? Had she brainwashed her to believe she didn’t even really need to grieve her husband? It all crashed down on her as she heard her mother gain momentum, take the upper hand. She can  _ feel _ Harriet’s eyes on her, can  _ hear _ her silent, desperate pleas. This woman who needed Louise to take her hand to keep her from drowning under her mother’s torrential downpour of loathing. Louise barely kept her own head above the water during those storms; she had nothing left to give to Harriet. 

She wasn’t sure if she kept her head bowed out of fear, disgust, or disgrace. She finally, only looked up in time to see Harriet’s fleeing back; she could feel blood pounding in her ears, still frozen to the same spot by the same godforsaken sink.

Louise’ mother, satisfied that Harriet had indeed fled, turned back to her with a smug smile, stating primly, “I simply cannot believe you befriended that  _ giantess _ . She clearly thinks much of herself and needs a bit of a talking to.”

Louise didn’t respond, instead kept her eyes on the spot where Harriet had stood mere moments ago. Louise knew the instant Harriet walked into the kitchen that her mother would pounce on her. Louise knew because her mother always had to be the most powerful woman in the room. She always knew how to tear Louise down to ensure that her daughter never pressed, never resisted. And she also knew with one look at Harriet that she wouldn’t be so easy to quell. 

Her mother continued to brag, pleased with her own cruelty, talking at Louise as if they were co-conspirators in sucking away Harriet’s soul. As soon as Louise realized her mother spoke to her as an accomplice, Louise felt her blood finally finding its way back into her heart, her veins. 

Harriet had  _ protected _ her, she realized. As her mother started in on Louise’s lack of taste, Harriet drew the conversation to herself, no doubt thinking she could withstand the ensuing attack. Louise knew Harriet was marked as her mother’s next victim; she had braced herself for her own taking apart first. But Harriet hadn’t let it get that far. She’d  _ immediately _ taken the brunt of her mother’s insane need for power. And she’d crumpled. Because Louise’s mother always knew the places to attack. 

But they were supposed to be partners. It was supposed to be them against everyone. Louise had crumpled under her mother’s disapproval, letting Harriet actually drown in the process. Louise could still hear Harriet’s silent plea,  _ Do you agree with her, Louise? _ She felt her blood color her cheeks. She was ashamed of herself. How could she have abandoned Harriet? How did she suddenly become her mother’s confidante? There was so much wrong with that.

Mrs. Tomlinson was still yammering on about how abhorrent Harriet was, Louise still suspended in time. She snapped back to attention as some of her mother’s insults finally reached her ear.

“...obviously her father must have paid to have her married off because who could  _ ever _ choose a woman so brash?”

“I did, Mother,” Louise said, feeling her heated blood pump through her, giving her energy for the fight she should’ve started fighting an hour ago. She was suddenly, finally livid.

Her mother paused in her diatribe, surprised at Louise’s interruption. She’d trained her daughter so well to simply  _ agree _ .

“I beg your pardon, Louise?” she said, danger lilting in her voice. She was warning Louise to stop. Before she’d have to tear Louise down again to remind her of her place, withdrawing the proffered camaraderie. But suddenly, Louise knew her place. And it wasn’t anywhere  _ near _ this poisonous woman.

“Harriet was right.  _ I _ approached  _ her _ after the meeting,” Louise stated, pulling her shoulders up straight, lifting her chin.

“Yes, and we’re going to have to discuss that, aren’t we?” her mother said lightly, picking invisible lint from her cardigan, “A review of who is acceptable company.”

“I don’t think we are, Mother,” Louise pushed. She didn’t think she’d ever pushed this far with her mother. The look on her mother’s face confirmed just that.

“Excuse me?” her voice lowered. The question was asked softly, but Louise knew what was coming. She was ready for it.

“Harriet is  _ lovely _ and brilliant and  _ warm _ . Not like  _ any _ of the other women you’ve forced me to be friends with because it’s what’s been expected of me since before I was even born. Harriet is funny -- genuinely funny -- and she doesn’t use love as a bargaining chip.” Louise pauses to take a breath, an implied “unlike you,” meant for the end of that sentence.

Her mother’s eyes rivaled a basilisk’s with their power to kill in that moment, but Louise wasn’t done.

“Harriet knows what I’m worth  _ beyond _ a pawn in your game of high society. She doesn’t care what I wear or if I need a few hours’ break from talking. She thinks I’m  _ smart _ and  _ brave _ . She lifts me up.”

“Are you  _ quite done _ ?” her mother finally interrupted, as Louise had needed to pause for another breath. The question is rhetorical, as most of her mother’s questions are, because she continues, “How  _ dare _ you speak to your mother like that? I’d thought you were old enough to make your own choices, but  _ clearly _ you are as petulant as when you were a child. Obviously, your father and I need to move you back into our home since you have completely run wild without a chaperone.”

“A  _ chaperone _ ?” Louise repeated incredulously. “You mean Steve wasn’t my husband? He was my  _ chaperone _ ?”

“Sometimes,  _ dear _ ,” her mother emphasized the word as a threat, “they’re one and the same. And you need your path set straight. I will arrange this with your father immediately.”

“You will  _ not _ ,” Louise thundered.

Both she and her mom looked at each other, stunned. Louise had never raised her voice. Ever. But there was no going back.

“I am  _ not _ a petulant child for you to bring back under your roof and thumb. I am a woman, and I am doing wonderfully. I  _ love _ my life. I  _ love _ my freedom. And you will not take it from me. I won’t let you,” she raised her chin defiantly. How realistic it was for her parents to pull her back under their roof was something she wasn’t ready to face. And if they could do that, she’d kick, claw, scream, tear, rip anything and everything to keep her present life.

Her life with  _ Harriet _ .

_ Oh God _ , she thought,  _ Harriet. _ What had she done? Was it too late? Would Harriet ever forgive her for not protecting her from Louise’s horrid mother? Could she reassure Harriet that everything her mother had said about her was wrong? That she hadn’t really believed any of it? Would Harriet ever look at her with love and tenderness ever again? 

She felt her heart crack at these answerless questions.

Louise could see the thunder brewing in her mother, knew the lightning was about to strike, words to tear Louise down and scare her back under the water. But she decided she didn’t even need to hear them, fight them, anymore. What she  _ needed _ to do was find Harriet. So before her mother could even open her mouth and spew the thunderstorm, Louise ran right past her, on the very same path Harriet had just run already too long ago.

She barely registered the look of shock on her mother’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another chapter I've held onto for weeks, trying to get it right, and have subsequently spent a lot of time staring at. It's still not what I want it to be, but good enough for now, I guess? Love you all <333


	10. Part 2 - 1945 - Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM THE WORST. Totally lost inspiration and took almost a three-month hiatus. I don't even know how good this is, but I wanted to wrap up 1945.

All of the curtains were drawn. There was no radio to be heard, no joyous laughter, not even the clicking of needles. 

There was Harriet, feeling as dark on the inside as her outside surroundings were, as frozen and subdued as her house.

She sat on her sofa, back in her dressing gown, a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders and arms, as if that would keep the pieces of her heart and soul from falling into oblivion. She wasn’t even consciously crying; the tears were an endless track from her eyes, down her pale cheeks and downturned mouth, finally to drip of her chin one at a time. She saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing aside from her grief, so consuming, constricting every organ, muscle, and vein, she could hardly begin to process it. 

Was time even passing? Or was she living in the same dark moment, rolling in time over and over again? She had no idea how long she’d been sat there and cared even less. Her stomach was empty but not asking to be fed. Her lungs were still working, she supposed. They did that on their own, so it wasn’t something she had to worry about. Would she even worry about it if she needed to? Probably not.

The dark clung to her, emanated from her. She might stay like this forever.

There was a vague rhythmic sound coming from somewhere. She made no effort to hear it better; more like she couldn’t avoid hearing it as it cut through the dark. The sound was coming even closer. Maybe she was suddenly keenly aware of her grandfather clock. Or footsteps perhaps?

As she pondered mildly, she need wait only a moment or two more before sudden, jarring, abrasive knocking pounded on her door. Harriet had to take a few moments to pull herself out of her stupor to figure out if that knocking was actually real. It continued, so she felt it must be. It took a moment or two to warily wade from her sofa, blanket still wrapped tightly around her shoulders, to greet the unannounced visitor, not bothering to hide evidence of her grief. There was no point; it was plain all over her face. She briefly wondered if it was Mrs. Tomlinson, coming round to keep puncturing her. She wouldn’t put it past the awful woman. 

Instead, it was Louise. 

Harriet would have been  _ less _ shocked if it was her mother. She didn’t know what to say, staring at the still stunning woman standing in her doorway. Was she really here? Surely this wasn’t a figment of her imagination. Louise was standing at her front door, panting and glistening -- did she  _ run _ here? Because that didn’t make any sense -- and Harriet wondered now if Louise was actually going to deliver the last striking blow, realizing that perhaps Louise finally did feel like speaking up for herself. Perhaps she ran, eager in her desperation to officially terminate their friendship and fall under her mother’s approval. 

They didn’t speak, merely stared. Louise seemed physically incapable of speaking, wheezing almost, until she finally seemed to catch her breath. Despite herself, Harriet was still concerned; after all, it wasn’t  _ she _ who wanted to sever all ties. Louise began to study Harriet more intently with her normal breathing pattern fully intact; Harriet responded by shifting uncomfortably under the blanket still secure around her, ignoring the heat seeping through the open door. There was evident pain in Louise’s eyes as she took in Harriet’s red eyes, swollen nose, disheveled hair. It was an expression so unlike that of an hour earlier when Louise’s scan was brief and full only of doubt. The different expression still did nothing to quell Harriet’s fears; it was surely merely a reflection of Louise’s distaste for confrontation.

Eventually, Louise shifted her gaze to again hold Harriet’s own, almost imploringly. What did she want? What questions sat behind those eyes?

The first question she asked was a simple, “Can I come in?” She asked with so much hesitation, so much uncertainty, that Harriet’s breath caught. Louise could  _ always _ come in, even if it was to break her.

She couldn’t bring herself to say as much, unwilling to participate in her own demise; she merely stepped back, allowing Louise entrance. Once inside, standing in the sitting room, Louise looked her up and down again, so unlike her mother, the pain having shifted to tenderness this time. Harriet had to drop her face to the ground.

“Harriet,” the older woman murmured, taking a step forward. “Oh, Harriet. I am  _ so _ sorry.”

Harriet unconsciously stepped back, unsure of what this apology accounted for: a goodbye? She said nothing as she continued to study her slippers. It was a role reversal of Louise silently begging for Harriet to look up as the latter could do anything but.

“I should never have let my mother talk to you like that,” she continued gently. Not looking up still, Harriet wasn’t sure if Louise was waiting for an invitation to explain further, but she did regardless. “She has such a gift at making people feel like they’re nothing. She’s done that to me my whole life. I’m used to it, I suppose?

“And I know I was a complete coward. I’m so humiliated you saw me that way. It took only one minute for her to terrify me into submission. You’ve empowered me so much, but I crumbled immediately. I’m sure you’re ashamed of me. I’m ashamed of myself.”

Harriet saw through her periphery, Louise’s head dropped at this last sentiment. As she paused in what sounded like a speech, Harriet kept her eyes to ground, very confused. Ashamed of Louise? Never. Of course not. And where was this going? This wasn’t making sense. Louise continued.

“I stood by and let her make you feel like nothing,” Harriet could hear the tears in those words. “But Harriet, you have to know -- oh, you must know -- that you aren’t nothing. You must know that you’re  _ everything _ ,” Louise breathed out the last word.

The declaration startled Harriet enough that she flicked her eyes up briefly, connecting with those gorgeous blue ones that emanated an emotion akin to love, but couldn’t quite believe that yet. She couldn’t float on a river of hope and returned her gaze downward.

“Harriet, I --” she paused, choking up a bit. “I am so sorry. I know exactly what I made you think. I made you think what my mother was saying was important. But it’s not. I  _ don’t care _ . I’ve always cared about what my mother thinks. It’s what’s made me such a miserable woman. But it’s another thing you’ve freed me from. I  _ don’t care _ . About her or anything she ever has to say ever again. I don’t.”

Harriet could still feel the tear tracks drying on her face. What she still couldn’t quite feel were warmth or security in Louise’s words, and consequently kept her head down. Finally, it was something Louise wouldn’t stand for anymore. She gently touched Harriet’s cheek, lifting her face so their eyes could meet. 

“I don’t care what my  _ heartless _ mother thinks,” Louise repeated gently. “The  _ only _ person whose opinion matters to me is yours. And I’m so worried you’re disappointed in me.”

Harriet’s green eyes widened in shock, even as it hurt looking at Louise, always bright as the sun. Louise, whose steady hand hadn’t moved and whose eyes reflected regret. Louise, who was so strong, and somehow she  _ still _ didn’t know it. But maybe was learning? Harriet could stand it no longer, letting Louise live in the merest shadow of desolation. Because she was desolated, wasn’t she? Here she was, seeking Harriets forgiveness and reaffirmations. As if Harriet was still the only one in the world who...mattered? Was that it, Harriet wondered briefly. Harriet  _ did _ still matter to Louise? It’s what her blue eyes were saying.

“Why on earth would I be disappointed in you, dear?” Harriet murmured, ever ready to lift Louise back up, placing her own hand over Louise’s.

Tears filled Louise’s eyes, “Because she made me doubt. Even if it was just for half an afternoon. She made me doubt.”

“Doubt what?” Harriet asked softly, roaming Louise’s lovely face with her eyes, gently probing for an answer. She thought she knew. But she needed to  _ know _ .

Louise took a deep breath but held eye contact, “That I love you.”

Harriet’s sharp intake of breath was an indication to her level of surprise. Louise loved her?  _ Louise _ loved her? Louise  _ loved _ her? Louise loved  _ her _ ? She couldn’t move, paralyzed by the fear of breaking the fragile stillness settled upon them. She studied Louise carefully; did Louise seem to regret her words? Were tears about to spill over? She examined it from every possibility, but the answer was clear, had never needed to be questioned: Louise was looking at Harriet with every bit of love possible to detect. Hey blue eyes her bright, a smile curling at both corners of her mouth, her cheekbones flushed in delight. It was almost as if the words had come out of her mouth, she knew them to be as true as the sun.

Harriet let the blanket drop from her shoulders, collecting both of Louise’s soft hands in her own. Harriet had never  _ dreamed _ of such a possibility. She had been resolved to be content by Louise’s side for the rest of her life, regardless of how they defined themselves. But here it was. A declaration. 

She could feel a smile rising up on her own face, mirroring Louise’s. The first thing that came to her mind as a reply was a bit unexpected, “I am so  _ proud _ of you, my darling.”

Louise beamed even brighter, which Harriet had not expected. Her own smile deepend as she leaned in for a soft kiss. When she pulled back, she finally returned the words, pouring all her heart’s passion into them: “I love you too, my Louise. I am so head-over-heels in love with you.”

Tears filled Louise’s eyes again, but given that they were coupled with the brightest smile, Harriet knew they were joyous. Louise softly pulled Harriet in, closer and closer, sealing the moment with the sweetest kiss, and Harriet melted into her. 

**

It was slow.  _ So slow _ . Reverently slow. Harriet was in awe of Louise as a whole and knew that seeing her piece by piece would be like a religion. Thrills shot up her spine, though, as she saw her own adoration reflected in Louise’s eyes.

As they took each other apart, examined each piece gently, just as soon were they fitting themselves back in, but this time, completely together. Completely whole.


End file.
